OldN 


O 


BALLADS 
OF   OLD    NEW   YORK 

V 


BOOKS  BY 
ARTHUR  GUITERMANN 

BALLADS  OF  OLD  NEW  YORK 
THE  LAUGHING  MUSE 
THE  MIRTHFUL  LYRE 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
[ESTABLISHED  1817] 


Ballad^  of 
OldNewYork 


Ar&xxar 

.Author  of 

"TheMiriMul  I^yr .  Etc 

Illustrated  Toy—  OT. ScotfWiUiams 


The  author  acknowledges  with  thanks  the 
courtesy  of  the  editors  of  Life,  Everybody's 
Magazine,  Harper's  Magazine,  the  New  York 
Times,  the  Youth's  Companion,  Woman's  Home 
Companion,  House  and  Garden,  the  New  York 
World,  McClure's  Magazine  and  the  New  York 
Tribune  in  granting  permission  to  reprint  many 
of  the  ballads  and  lyrics  in  this  collection. 


BALLADS  OF  OLD  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1920,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  February,  1920 

B-U 


DEDICATION 

LOOKING  westward  from  my  window  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  mansion  in  which  Washington 
Irving  once  lived  and  wrote;  a  few  blocks  to  the 
southward  is  the  tomb  where  Peter  Stuyvesant  lies 
buried;  and  but  a  little  farther  to  the  north  and 
west  stands  the  house  in  which  Theodore  Roosevelt 
was  born.  Below,  among  the  green  trees  of 
Stuyvesant  Park,  shoals  of  children  are  playing, 
children  of  many  races,  types  of  those  with  whom, 
in  a  large  measure,  lies  the  future  of  this  city  that 
I  love.  Here  on  the  borders  of  the  great  East 
Side,  where  Past  and  Future  meet,  is  the  proper 
place  to  be  martialing  the  varied  traditions  of 
New  York  and  its  neighborhood,  piecing  together 
colorful  stories  of  the  Past  for  those  who  are  to 
inherit  the  Future.  Yet  these  are  but  a  few  of  a 
host  of  such  legends.  For,  as  under  the  tons  of 
steel  and  stone  with  which  we  have  seen  fit  to 
burden  our  lovely  Island  of  Manhattan,  silently 
flow  hidden  streams  such  as  the  Old  Wreck  Brook 
and  Minetta  Water — streams  once  sparkling  in  the 
sunlight  and  alive  with  bright-sided  trout,  though 
now  dark  and  forgotten — likewise  beneath  the 
stern  and  heavy  masonry  of  Modernity  ripple  many 
silver  rivulets  of  Old  Romance. 

And  so  these  rambling  tales  of  the  hardy  founders 
of  a  great  commonwealth  are  dedicated  to  all  who, 
like  those  true  men  of  earlier  days,  shall  believe  in 
clean  living,  hard  working,  and  good  fighting;  yet 
more  especially  are  they  dedicated  to  the  valiant 
and  happy  memory  of  those  three  good  New- 
Yorkers — Peter  Stuyvesant,  Washington  Irving, 
and  Theodore  Roosevelt. 


THE  STUYVESANT  BOUWERIE 
June,  Jpip 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEDICATION v 

VOORREDE  (PROLOGUE) i 

DUTCH  PERIOD 

HUDSON'S  VOYAGE 5 

INTERLUDE — HUDSON n 

DUTCHMAN'S  BREECHES 13 

INTERLUDE — AN  APRIL  ROMANCE  ....  19 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BRONX 20 

INTERLUDE — THE  CRITICS 24 

RAMBOUT  VAN  DAM 25 

INTERLUDE — EIGHT  OARS  AND  A  COXSWAIN  30 

How  PEARL  STREET  WAS  PAVED 32 

INTERLUDE — AN  OLD  ROAD 38 

THE  LORD  OF  THE  DUNDERBERG 40 

INTERLUDE — THUNDER-STORM 49 

A  LEGEND  OF  MAIDEN  LANE 50 

INTERLUDE — A  SONG  IN  JUNE 57 

THE  RATTLE-WATCH  OF  NEW  AMSTERDAM  ...  59 

INTERLUDE — MINETTA  WATER 66 

SLEEPY  HOLLOW 68 

INTERLUDE — A  SPRINGTIME  PILGRIMAGE  .  .  75 

A  SCANDAL  IN  NEW  AMSTERDAM 77 

INTERLUDE — KISSING  BRIDGE 85 


PAGE 


A  TRIAL  IN  NEW  AMSTERDAM 89 

INTERLUDE— ON  THE  HARLEM 94 

WILLIAM  THE  TESTY 96 

INTERLUDE — THE  ROAD 101 

THE  PIRATE'S  SPUKE 103 

INTERLUDE — STORM  SIGNALS m 

A  DEAL  IN  REAL  ESTATE 112 

INTERLUDE — POSSESSION  .  „• 117 

WIZARD'S  WELL n8 

INTERLUDE — HALLOWE'EN  CHARM  ....  125 

BORGER  JORIS'S  HAMMER I26 

INTERLUDE — A  LILT  IN  FALL 133 

THE  CHANGE  OF  FLAGS 134 

ENGLISH  COLONIAL  PERIOD 

POLLY  CORTELYOU 143 

INTERLUDE— CITY  HALL  PARK 149 

THE  STORM  SHIP 15! 

INTERLUDE — OFF  FIRE  ISLAND 159 

THE  THANK-OFFERING 160 

INTERLUDE — SAXON  HARVEST  HEALTH      .    .  164 

TUBBY  HOOK 165 

INTERLUDE — THE  HOUSE  OF  BLAZES    .    .    .  170 

ZENGER  THE  PRINTER 172 

INTERLUDE — THE  RIVER 176 

BUTTERMILK  CHANNEL 178 

INTERLUDE — A  CITY  GARDEN 183 

BOWLING  GREEN       185 

REVOLUTIONARY  PERIOD 

MARY  MURRAY  OF  MURRAY  HILL 193 

INTERLUDE — UNCLE  SAM  TO  JOHN  BULL  .    .  199 


PAGE 

HAARLEM  HEIGHTS 201 

INTERLUDE — THE  BLOCKHOUSE  IN  THE  PARK  208 

THE  STORMING  OF  STONY  POINT 210 

INTERLUDE — OLD  TRINITY 215 

THE  FATE  OF  THE  HESSIAN 217 

INTERLUDE — THE  INN:  AN  OLD  EPITAPH  .  222 

THE  DYCKMAN  HOUSE 223 

INTERLUDE — OUR  COLONEL 228 

A  RAID  OF  THE  NEUTRAL  GROUND 230 

INTERLUDE — WASHINGTON  IN  WALL  STREET  .  237 

FORT  TYRON 240 

INTERLUDE — DECATUR'S  TOAST 243 

THE  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  PAUL  JONES 245 

INTERLUDE — THE  OLD  CONSTITUTION  .  .  .  252 

FRAUNCES*  TAVERN 257 

MISCELLANEOUS 

THE  PALISADES 261 

INTERLUDE — UNDER  THE  PALISADES  .  .  .  265 

THE  DEVIL'S  STEPPING-STONES  267 

INTERLUDE — A  SEA  CHARM 272 

MONTGOMERY'S  RETURN 274 

INTERLUDE — A  DREAMER 278 

DUTCHMAN'S  QUIRK 279 

INTERLUDE — NEW  YORK 287 

THE  "CLERMONT" 288 

INTERLUDE — GREAT  Is  DIANA  OF  THE  MAN- 

NAHATTOES! 2Q2 

THE  HALL  OF  FAME 294 

EPILOGUE — THE  BOOK  LINE 299 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 
AND  EVER  THEY  PUFFED  AS  THEY  PONDERED,  AND 

QUAFFED, 
TO     CLEAR     THEIR     PERCEPTIONS,     FULL     MANY     A 

DRAUGHT, 

AND  DINED  ON  THE  OYSTERS 35 

WlLD  WAS  THE  LAUGHTER  THAT  QUAKING  MEN 
HEARD  THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  FROM  THE  GOBLIN 

GLEN 45 

THE  RATTLE-WATCH  OF  NEW  AMSTERDAM      .    .      61 
"THEN  SUCH  A  COMMOTION  YOU  NEVER  SAW! 
VROUW  ANNEKE  VOWED  SHE  WOULD  HAVE  THE 

LAW." 81 

KISSING  BRIDGE 87 

LIGHT  AS  WIND-BLOWN  THISTLE-DOWN 

UP  THE  WOODLAND  PATH  SHE  SPED 121 

MARY  MURRAY  OF  MURRAY  HILL 195 

LAUGHING,  THEY  SWARMED  TO  THE  CRESTED  HEIGHT, 

STEEL  TO  THE  STEEL  OF  THE  GRENADIERS!      .    213 
"Up!  BULLY  BOYS  OF  THE  NEPPERHAN? 

GATHER!  YE  TROOPERS,  GRIM  AND  ROUGH."  .    233 


VOORREDE 

(Prologue) 

STEENDAM  the  Poet  (whom  all  men  know) 
Cuddled  his  fiddle  and  poised  the  bow; 
Quoth'a,  "True  lovers  of  tales  of  sprites, 
Goblins  and  phantoms  that  walk  o'  nights, 
Battles  and  pirates  and  pleasant  nooks, 
Quaint,  homely  legends  from  musty  books, 
Hear!  for  I  carol  in  lilting  rhymes 
Rollicking  lays  of  the  Good  Old  Times!" 


Duicli 
Period 


HUDSON'S  VOYAGE 

"A  VERY  good  land  to  fall  with  and  a  pleasant 
*^  land  to  see."  Thus  wrote  Mate  Robert  Juet 
in  description  of  the  region  of  broken  islands  and 
rocky  hills  bordering  the  deep  harbor  into  which 
the  Half  Moon  plowed  her  way  on  the  3d  of 
September,  1609.  Five  months  earlier  the  Hal] 
Moon  had  sailed  from  Amsterdam  to  search  for  a 
passage  to  India  by  the  northeast;  but,  baffled  by 
headwinds  and  the  ice  and  cold  of  Nova  Zembla 
and  the  consequent  dissensions  among  his  crew, 
her  experienced  navigator,  Master  Henry  Hudson, 
had  changed  her  course  about,  steering  westward 
for  the  shores  of  the  New  World. 

After  a  long  coasting  trip,  south  and  north 
again,  Hudson  entered  New  York  Bay.  Hoping 
that  the  broad  channel  of  the  river  that  now  bears 

Esl 


his  riarite  mfeht  prove  to  be  the  long-sought  pas 
sage  to  the  Orient,  he  followed  the  stream  beyond 
the  present  site  of  Albany;  then,  seeing  that  the 
search  was  fruitless,  he  returned  to  report  his 
momentous  discoveries. 


HUDSON'S  VOYAGE 

"THROUGH  the  ice  of  Nova  Zembla,  through  the 
fogs  that  held  us  long, 

We  had  sought  the  Northeast  fairway  till  a  head 
wind  blowing  strong 

Bade  us  swing  the  kicking  rudder;  and  we  filled 
and  bore  away 

Ever  Westward  for  a  passage  to  the  portals  of 
Cathay. 

"And  we  sailed  o'er  seas  uncharted,  rolling  black 

and  green  and  blue, 

Till  we  hailed  the  coastal  ranges  of  the  world 
they  call  the  New! 

[7) 


And  we  saw  a  wooded  headland  rising  boldly  on 
our  lee — 

'Twas  a  goodly  land  to  fall  with  and  a  pleasant 
land  to  see — 

Where  an  ocean  channel  broadened  to  a  hill- 
encompassed  bay, 

And  I  deemed  it  was  the  highroad  to  the  treas 
ures  of  Cathay. 

s There   we   moored   our   vessel   safely   from   the 

swirling  autumn  tides, 
And   the   Red  Men  in  their  shallops  came   and 

stroked  her  salty  sides; 

As  they  marveled  at  her  hugeness  of  our  friend 
ship  they  were  fain, 
And   they  brought  us   pipes  of  copper,  mellow 

grapes,  and  yellow  grain. 
When    I    questioned    them    for   tidings   of    our 

much-desired  goal, 
Though  their  savage  tongue  I  knew  not,  yet  they 

beckoned  toward  the  Pole. 
So  we  heaved  the  Half  Moons  anchor  and  we 

got  her  under  way, 
And  we  shaped  our  voyage  Northward  for  the 

harbors  of  Cathay. 
[8] 


" Fifty  leagues  we  drew  a  furrow  on  that  water 
way  unknown, 
Past  the  bowered  outer  islands,  under  cliffs  of 

living  stone, 
Skirting  sunlit  fields  that  billowed  to  the  shores 

of  inland  seas, 
Under  shadowed  rocky  ranges  with  their  crests  of 

noble  trees, 
Till    the  channel    shoaled   and    narrowed   in    a 

reach  of  highland  plain, 
And  the  brackish  water  sweetened — and  we  knew 

our  quest  was  vain. 
'Twas  the  River  of  the  Mountains,  where  the 

silver  salmon  play; 
And  o'er  yet  untraversed  waters  lies  the  passage 

to  Cathay. 

"So,  aboard  again,  my  trusties!  for  the  spirit  will 

not  rest; 
We  must  find  the  golden  passage,  be  it  East  or 

be  it  West. 
With    a   seaman's   craft    and    courage,   with   a 

single  heart  and  soul, 
We   shall  search  that  ocean  fairway   from  the 

Tropics  to  the  Pole. 

[93 


Yet,  when  softly  lap  the  surges,  in  my  cabin  I 
may  dream 

Of  the  mighty  mountain  river,  of  that  broadly 
rolling  stream, 

Where  I  heard  the  hum  of  nations  in  the  whis 
per  of  the  shrouds, 

While,  as  breath  of  future  cities,  rose  the  white 
September  clouds. 

What  is  all  the  dazzling  treasure  that  the  jew 
eled  East  may  give 

To  our  new-discovered  countries  where  the  sons 
of  men  shall  live! 

But  the  offshore  breezes  freshen  and  the  tide- 
rush  will  not  stay; 

So  unmoor,  and  set  the  tiller  for  the  sea-road 
to  Cathay!" 


HUDSON 

Ma-hican-ittuck! 

River  of  the  Mountains, 
Poured  to  the  sea 

From  Adirondack  crags, 
Buoying  the  leafy 

Tribute  of  your  fountains. 
Rocking  the  navies 

Of  a  hundred  flags! 

Forests  are  yours. 

And  fair  embowered  islands; 

hi] 


Cities  are  yours 

Whose  towers  touch  the  skies. 
Curve  grandly  down 

Your  goblin-haunted  Highlands; 
Lave,  golden-waved, 

The  vale  where  Irving  lies. 

Deep-breasted  stream, 

What  tales  your  hills  have  told  me! 
Playmate  and  friend 

In  days  of  youthful  glow, 
Now,  as  of  old, 

In  crystal  arms  enfold  me; 
Take  me  again 

Within  your  cooling  flow! 

Plunging,  I  watch 

Your  deeper  waters  changing 
Gold-lighted  green 

To  amethystine  shade; 
Strong-armed  and  free, 

Your  boundless  bosom  ranging, 
My  heart  in  yours 

Beats  warm  and  unafraid. 

[12] 


DUTCHMAN'S   BREECHES 

JUST  after  the  starry  flowers  of  the  hepatica 
have  appeared  among  the  dead  leaves,  yet  be 
fore  the  violets  have  come,  the  wooded  spaces  on 
and  near  the  Island  of  Manhattan  are  beautified 
with  innumerable  clusters  of  quaint  little  white- 
and-yellow  blossoms  known  to  the  schoolmen  as 
Dicentra  cucullaria;  but  the  children,  ever  quick 
to  recognize  true  resemblances,  call  them  "Dutch- 

[13] 


man's  breeches."  That  this  name  is  not  due  to  a 
mere  chance  resemblance  is  shown  by  this  tale  of 
the  founding  of  a  great  city  which  will  be  found, 
in  part,  confirmed  in  the  chronicles  of  the  immortal 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker. 

Bowling  Green  is  believed  to  have  been  the  scene 
of  that  first  great  land  purchase  with  which  the 
true  history  of  New  York  properly  begins. 


DUTCHMAN'S  BREECHES 

A  May-Day  Legend  of  Mannahatta 

TWAS  in  the  month  when  lilacs  bloom, 
When  apple-blossoms  breathe  perfume 
To  call  the  bees;   when  bluebirds  throng, 
When  bobolink  regains  his  song; 
When,  clear  and  cloudless,  archly  smile 
The  dear  blue  skies  that  love  our  isle. 

Across  a  dimpling,  dancing  bay 
That  laved  its  bows  with  golden  spray, 
Full-sailed,  a  little  squadron  bore 
To  Mannahatta's  virgin  shore 


A  city's  founders — Kips,  Van  Dorns, 

Van  Tienhovens,  Schermerhorns, 

Van  Dams,  Van  Wycks,  Van  Dycks,  Van  Pelts, 

And  Onderdoncks  and  Roosevelts. 


Right  glad  they  leaped  ashore — when  lo! 

With  threatening  spear,  and  supple  bow 

In  menace  bent,  a  stately  band 

Of  woodland  chieftains  barred  the  strand. 

"In  peace  return!"  a  sachem  old 

Began;  "This  bowered  isle  we  hold 

As  sacred — ever  blessed  anew 

By  footprints  of  the  Manitou; 

Nor  may  we  yield,  for  blood  or  spoil, 

Our  birthright  in  its  hallowed  soil." 


Rejoined  that  man  of  subtle  wit 
The  wily  Peter  Minuit, 
"Hail,  noble  chiefs!     Your  island's  fame 
Hath  reached  the  land  from  whence  we  came, 
Wide  leagues  away.     But  little  space 
We  crave — a  meager  resting-place. 
Behold  these  keen-edged  knives;   this  store 
Of  well-barbed  hooks  and  beads  galore; 
fi61 


These  blankets  and  this  fragrant  cask! 
For  all,  a  poor  exchange  we  ask: 
The  scanty  plot  of  countryside 
A  Dutchman's  breeches  serve  to  hide!" 


The  chief  assented  with  a  smile — 
(Alas!  unskilled  in  Paleface  guile!) 
Then,  loyal  to  his  leader's  look, 
Advanced  the  sturdy  Gert  Ten  Broeck — 
Through  Holland  noted  far  and  near 
For  amplitude  of  nether  gear — 
And  spread,  amid  a  hush  profound, 
His  mighty  garment  on  the  ground! 

Perhaps  the  wonder  came  to  pass 
By  grace  of  good  Saint  Nicholas; 
Perhaps  a  marvelous  array 
The  Dutchman  wore — I  cannot  say; 
But,  while  the  Red  Men  stared,  dismayed, 
Ten  Broeck,  in  silence,  stripped  and  laid 
His  mystic  garments,  row  on  row, 
Until  to  Spuyten  Duyvil's  flow 
A  cloud  of  knickerbockers  quite 
Obscured  the  soil  from  mortal  sight! 

[17] 


And  thus  our  cherished  dwelling-place 
Was  ransomed  from  the  savage  race. 

For  proof  you  ask?    Ah,  skeptic  few! 

Will  Nature's  word  suffice  for  you? 

Attend!     When  flower-laden  May 

Is  ushered  in  by  Moving  Day, 

And  all  our  folk,  with  van  and  stage, 

Renew  the  ancient  pilgrimage — 

Where  still,  unchained  by  steel  and  stone, 

The  Gentle  Goddess  holds  her  own, 

Appear  on  clustered  stems  a  clan 

Of  dancing  blossoms,  known  to  man 

As  "Dutchman's  Breeches" — in  the  style 

Of  Sixteen-Twenty.     Thus  our  isle 

Again  displays  in  every  nook 

The  garments  of  the  great  Ten  Broeck. 


18 


AN  APRIL  ROMANCE 

The  crystal  spears  of  slantwise-driven  Rain 
Right  gallantly  assail  the  churlish  Mold 

That  in  his  frozen  fastness  doth  enchain 

The  Princess  Daffodil,  of  trembling  gold. 
3 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BRONX 

A  MONG  the  earliest  settlers  north  of  the  Haar- 
"^^  lem  was  Jonas  Bronck,  a  well-to-do  Danish 
Lutheran  who  arrived  about  1640.  He  chose  for 
his  plantation  a  goodly  tract  bordering  the  quiet 
stream  then  and  thereafter  known  as  "Brorick's 
Kill,"  but  by  the  Indians  called  "Ah-qua-hung," 
which  some  interpret  "Place  of  peace" — a  name 
that  seems  to  have  been  echoed  in  the  early  title 
of  Westchester  village,  "Vredeland,"  or  "Land  of 
Peace."  The  old  native  name  acquired  a  new 
significance  in  1642  when  the  disastrous  war  with 
the  Wecquaesgeek  Indians  was  ended  by  the  sign 
ing  of  a  treaty  of  peace  in  the  house  that  Jonas 
Bronck  had  built. 

[20] 


The  learned  Steendam  has  preserved  a  legend 
of  the  miraculous  way  in  which  the  father  of  the 
new  settlement  was  drawn  to  the  site  of  his  future 
home,  a  legend  no  less  authentic  than  the  cher 
ished  tales  of  the  founding  of  Thebes,  Carthage, 
and  Rome. 


[21] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BRONX 

WITH  sword  and  Bible,  brood  and  dame, 
Across  the  seas  from  Denmark  came 
Stout  Jonas  Bronck.     He  roved  among 
The  wooded  vales  of  Ah-qua-hung. 
"Good  sooth!  on  every  hand,"  quoth  he, 
"Are  pleasant  lands  and  fair  to  see; 
But  which  were  best  to  plow  and  till 
And  meetest  both  for  manse  and  mill?" 

"Bronck!     Bronck!     Bronck!" 

Called  the  frogs  from  the  reeds  of  the  river; 
"Bronck!     Bronck!     Bronck!" 

From  the  marshes  and  pools  of  the  stream. 
"Here  let  your  journeyings  cease; 

Blest  of  the  Bounteous  Giver, 
Yours  is  the  Valley  of  Peace, 

Here  is  the  home  of  your  dream." 

"Oho!"  laughed  Jonas  Bronck;  "I  ween 
These  pop-eyed  elves  in  bottle-green 

[22] 


Do  call  my  name  to  show  the  spot 
Predestined! — Here  I  cast  my  lot!" 
So  there  he  reared  his  dwelling-place 
And  built  a  mill,  with  wheel  and  race. 
And  even  now,  beneath  the  hill 
When  summer  nights  are  fair  and  still: 

"Bronck!     Bronck!     Bronck!" 

Rise  the  cadenced  batrachian  numbers; 
"Bronck!     Bronck!     Bronck!" 

Chant  a  myriad  chorister  gnomes; 
"High  on  the  shadowy  crest 

Under  the  hemlock  he  slumbers. 
Here  is  the  region  of  rest; 

Come  to  our  Valley  of  Homes!" 


[23] 


THE  CRITICS 

The  moon  was  up  and  I  was  young: 
No  matter  what  I  dared  to  write, 

But  how  it  woke  each  sportive  tongue 
Of  little  elves  that  haunt  the  night! 

Though  Crickets  chanted,  "True,  true,  true!" 
The  Tree  Toads  piped,  "'Tis  not!    'Tis  not!" 

The  Hermit  H owlet  jeered,  "Hoof  hoo!" 
And  Gaffer  Bullfrog  blurted,  "Rot!" 

So,  red  with  wrath,  I  flung  the  scrawl 
Across  the  walk — and  lo!  by  day. 

The  Dew,  the  truest  friend  of  all, 
Had  washed  those  erring  lines  away. 


24] 


RAMBOUT  VAN  DAM 

TVTOW  this,  the  legend  of  the  Flying  Dutchman 
*  ^  of  the  Tappan  Zee — the  broad  reach  of  the 
Hudson  at  Tarrytown — is  entitled  to  particular 
respect  as  a  double-barreled  tract  against  pro 
fanity  and  Sabbath-breaking.  Any  one  who  chooses 
to  follow  by  rowboat  Rambout's  course  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Spuyten  Duyvil  up  the  river  about 
as  far  as  Nyack  will  have  (in  addition  to  blistered 
hands)  a  great  respect  for  the  hero's  prowess  as 
an  oarsman. 

"Zee"  should  really  be  pronounced  as  if  spelled 
"Zay";  but  the  popular  pronunciation,  which  is 
in  accordance  with  the  actual  spelling,  has  been 
adopted  in  this  and  subsequent  ballads  as  being 
that  which  is  likely  to  prevail. 


[25] 


RAMBOUT  VAN  DAM 
THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  OF  THE  TAPPAN  ZEE 

ON  Tappan  Zee  a  shroud  of  gray 

Is  heavy,  dank,  and  low; 
All  dimly  gleams  the  beacon-ray 

Of  White  Pocantico. 

No  skipper  braves  old  Hudson  now 
Where  Nyack's  headlands  frown, 

And  safely  moored  is  every  prow 
Of  drowsy  Tarrytown; 

Yet,  clear  as  word  of  human  lip, 

The  river  sends  its  shores 
The  rhythmic  rullock-clank  and  drip 

Of  even-rolling  oars. 
[26! 


What  rower  plies  a  reckless  oar 
With  mist  on  flood  and  strand? 

That  oarsman  toils  for  evermore, 
And  ne'er  shall  reach  the  land! 


Roistering,  rollicking  Ram  van  Darn, 
Fond  of  a  frolic  and  fond  of  a  dram, 
Fonder — yea,  fonder,  proclaims  Renown, 
Of  Tryntje  Bogardus  of  Tarrytown, 
Leave  Spuyten  Duyvil  to  roar  his  song! 
Pull!  for  the  current  is  sly  and  strong; 
Nestles  the  robin  and  flies  the  bat. 
Ho!  for  the  frolic  at  Kakiat! 
Merry  the  sport  at  the  quilting-bee 
Held  at  the  farm  by  the  Tappan  Zee! 
Jovial  labor  with  quips  and  flings 
Dances  with  wonderful  pigeonwings, 
Twitter  of  maidens  and  clack  of  dames, 
Honest  flirtations  and  rousing  games; 
Platters  of  savory  beef  and  brawn, 
Buckets  of  treacle  and  good  suppawn, 
Oceans  of  cider  and  beer  in  lakes, 
Mountains  of  crullers  and  honey-cakes — 

[271 


Such  entertainment  should  never  pall! 
Rambout  van  Dam  took  his  fill  of  all; 
Laughed  with  the  wittiest,  worked  with  a  zest, 
Danced  with  the  prettiest,  drank  with  the  best. 

Oh,  that  enjoyment  should  breed  annoy! 
Tryntje  grew  fickle,  or  cold  or  coy; 
Rambout,  possessed  of  a  jealous  sprite, 
Scowled  like  the  sky  on  a  stormy  night, 
Snarled  a  "good-by"  from  his  sullen  throat, 
Blustered  away  to  his  tugging  boat. 
After  him  hastened  Jacobus  Horn: 
"Stay  with  us,  Rambout,  till  Monday  morn. 
Soon  in  the  east  will  the  dawn  be  gray; 
Rest  from  thy  oars  on  the  Sabbath  Day." 
Angrily,  Rambout  van  Dam  ripped  back: 
"Dunder  en  blixem!  du  Schobbejak! 
Preach  to  thy  children!  and  let  them  know 
Spite  of  the  Duyvil  and  thee,  I'll  row 
Thousands  of  Sundays,  if  need  there  be, 
Home  o'er  this  ewig-vervlekte  zee!" 
Muttering  curses,  he  headed  south. 
Jacob,  astounded,  with  open  mouth 
Watched  him  receding,  when — crash  on  crash 
Volleyed  the  thunder!     A  hissing  flash 
[28! 


Smote  on  the  river! — He  looked  again: — 
Rambout  was  gone  from  the  sight  of  men! 


Old   Dunderberg  with  grumbling  roar 
Hath  warned  the  fog  to  flee, 

But  still  that  never-wearied  oar 
Is  heard  on  Tappan  Zee. 

A  moon  is  closed  in  Hudson's  breast 
And  lanterns  gem  the  town; 

The  phantom  craft  that  may  not  rest 
Plies  ever,  up  and  down, 

'Neath  skies  of  blue  and  skies  of  gray, 

In  spite  of  wind  or  tide, 
Until  the  trump  of  Judgment  Day;— 

A  sound — and  naught  beside. 


29 


EIGHT  OARS  AND  A  COXSWAIN 

Eight  oars  compel 

Our  darting  shelly 
Eight  oar-blades  flash  the  sun; 

The  hard  arms  thrill, 

The  deep  lungs  fill, 
Eight  backs  are  bent  as  one. 

All  silver  lined 

We  leave  behind 
Each  wave  of  somber  hue. 

"Stroke!     Stroke! 

Stroke!     Stroke! 
Steady,  Number  Two!" 
[30] 


The  sea-gulls  go, 

A  drift  of  snow, 
On  Hudson's  lights  and  shades; 

The  eagle  swings 

On  splendid  wings 
Above  the  Palisades. 

Let  Caution  steer 

The  shore  anear, 
But  Valor  takes  the  tide. 

"Stroke!     Stroke! 

Stroke!     Stroke! 
Ease  your  forward  slide?' 

A  fair  league  still 

To  old  Cock  Hill, 
Where  Spuyten  Duyvil  roars. 

No  time  for  play; 

Give  'way;   give  'way! 
And  bend  the  driven  oars! 

When  breezes  blow 

Then  feather  low 
With  level  blades  and  true. 

"Stroke!     Stroke! 

Stroke!     Stroke! 
Steady!    Pull  it  thr-o-o-ough!" 


HOW  PEARL  STREET  WAS  PAVED 

A  LTHOUGH  the  statement  has  been  made  as 
**•  a  jest  and  is  generally  regarded  as  such,  it  is 
nevertheless  literally  true  that  several  of  the  old 
streets  of  New  York  were  originally  laid  out  by 
the  public-spirited  cows  of  the  settlers.  An  in 
stance  of  this  primitive  method  of  road-engineering 
exists  in  crooked  old  Pearl  Street,  the  lower  part 
of  which  formed  the  original  water-front  of  New 
Amsterdam  on  the  east.  This  street,  thus  almost 
miraculously  created,  received  its  first  pavement 
in  a  manner  likewise  so  happy  (and  economical) 
as  to  justify  both  the  burghers  of  old  and  their 
modern  successors  in  trusting  to  Providence  for 
the  furtherance  of  public  improvements. 

[32] 


HOW  PEARL  STREET  WAS  PAVED 

IN  Wouter  Van  Twiller's  manorial  pale 
There  flourished  a  cow  (and  she  flourished  a  tail) 
Safe-housed,  where  the  Battery  guarded  the  shore 
In  kindly  communion  with  many  cows  more. 
Awaking  from  visions  of  clover,  each  morn 
She  drowsily  lowed  to  the  drover  whose  horn 
Was  blown  at  each  byre;   then,  leading  the  line 
Of  sleepy  New  Amsterdam's  somnolent  kine, 
She  sauntered  with  Sukey  and  Brindle  and  all 
Away  to  the  Common  beyond  the  Town  Wall. 

The  route  that  she  plodded  by  hillock  and  stream 
Was  crookedly  quaint  as  a  summer  night's  dream; 
For,  though  at  the  start,  like  an  orderly  beast, 
She  skirted  the  river  that  flows  on  the  east, 

[33] 


Soon,  tempted  by  boskage  and  cress  of  the  best, 
She  rambled  and  browsed  to  the  north  or  the  west; 
Till,  trodden  each  morning  and  evening,  there 

showed 

A  devious  pathway  that  wore  to  a  road 
Where  brick-fronted  houses  began  to  appear 
To  crown  the  caprice  of  that  "Boss'*  engineer. 
(And  this  is  the  cause  of  the  intricate  way 
The  streets  of  New  Amsterdam  wander  to-day.) 

Next,  keen  for  progression,  the  burghers  decreed 
The  street  should  be  paved  with  the  uttermost 

speed, 

And  chose  a  committee  of  good  men  and  true 
To   think   out   the   problem    and    put   the   thing 

through. 

Van  Bommel,  Van  Keuren,  Hans  Jacobson  Kol, 
Claes  Tysen,  Joost  Smeeman,  and  Huybertsen  Mol, 
All  stout  at  the  trencher  and  wise  in  debate, 
Held  council  portentous  both  early  and  late. 

They  grouped  on  the  road  at  the  first  flush  of  dawn 
With  pipes  of  tobacco  and  bowls  of  suppawn 
And  dreamed  of  all  pavings  that  ever  were  known — 
Block,  corduroy,  cement,  gold,  mortar,  and  stone. 

[34] 


And  ever  they  puffed  as  they  pondered,  and  quaffed, 
To  clear  their  perceptions,  full  many  a  draught, 
And  dined  on  the  oysters  abounding  of  yore 
In  numberless  shoals  on  our  fortunate  shore. 
(The  bivalves  our  fathers  deemed  worthy  of  praise 
Were  giants  that  mock  these  degenerate  days; 
For  find  me  an  oyster,  in  bay,  creek,  or  foss 
To-day,  that  will  measure  twelve  inches  across!) 

A  fortnight  they  tarried  to  feast  and  perpend, 
Surveying  the  road  from  beginning  to  end; 
When  lo!  what  a  mountain  of  labor  was  saved; 
For,  e'en  as  they  feasted,  the  road  had  been  paved, 
And  paved  for  the  tread  of  a  prince  or  an  earl 
With  oyster-shells,  brilliant  in  mother-of-pearl! 
So  "Pearl"  was  the  name,  undeniably  meet, 
The  burghers  bestowed  on  that  marvelous  street. 

'Twas  thus  that  our  city's  progenitors  showed 
The  very  best  method  of  paving  a  road: 
Appoint  a  committee  to  dally  and  doubt 
And  somehow  the  matter  will  work  itself  out. 
So,  taught  by  experience,  that  is  the  way 
We  manage  the  streets  of  the  city  to-day. 


[37 


AN  OLD  ROAD 

In  days  that  were — no  matter  when — 
'Twas  not  a  weed-grown  palindrome, 

At  either  end  a  dreamy  glen, 

But  led,  like  other  roads,  to  Rome. 

Its  dust  was  ridged  by  many  wheels 

That  rolled  to  market,  church,  and  fair; 

But  now  a  wave  of  grass  conceals 
The  road  that  leads  not  anywhere. 

The  chipmunk  haunts  its  tumbled  walls 
Where  roses  wait  the  wild-bee's  kiss, 

And  honeysuckle  droops  and  falls 
Entwined  with  ropes  of  clematis. 

And  here  the  nesting  meadow-lark 
Hath  built;   and  wisps  of  maidenhair 

Cfer-veil  the  grooves  that  faintly  mark 
The  road  that  leads  not  anywhere. 

[38] 


Because  it  bore  the  grinding  jar 
Of  sullen  wheels  from  year  to  year, 

Its  twilight  owns  a  softer  star — 
A  sweeter  silence  lingers  here. 

And  we,  outworn  by  toil  and  stress. 
As  truant  urchins  let  us  fare, 

Like  our  dear  pathway,  purposeless — 
The  road  that  leads  not  anywhere. 


[39] 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  DUNDERBERG 

AX  7  HEN  the  Goede  Vrouw  discharged  upon  our 
^  shores  her  load  of  hearty  Dutch  settlers, 
she  also  let  loose  a  horde  of  old-world  sprites  and 
goblins,  elvish  stowaways,  who,  unknown  to  cap 
tain  or  crew,  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  their 
mortal  fellow-countrymen  to  the  New  World. 
These  were  no  flimsy-winged  sylphs  and  fairies, 
idling  away  their  time  slumbering  in  roses  or  danc 
ing  on  the  green.  Honest,  homely  Robin  Good- 
fellows  were  they  all,  delighting  in  useful  labor  and 
rough  sport;  benevolent,  yet  prone  to  mischief; 
friends  to  man,  but  jealously  exacting  from  him 
all  traditional  dues  of  tribute  and  honor.  Well 
fitted  to  cope  with  the  ruggedness  of  an  untamed 
land,  they  spread  rapidly  through  the  valley  of  the 
Hudson,  peopling  its  glens  with  their  hardy  brood. 
The  chieftain  of  the  most  powerful  of  these 
goblin  clans  was  the  Heer  or  Lord  of  the  Dunder- 
berg.  His  dominions  extended  through  the  High 
lands  of  the  Hudson  from  the  Dunderberg  or 
Thunder  Mountain,  commanding  the  perilous 

[40] 


strait  of  the  Devil's  Race,  at  the  south,  to  Pollopel 
(which  means  "Soupladle")  Island  that  lies  in  the 
Wind  Gate,  as  the  northern  entrance  to  the  en 
chanted  region  is  known.  This  potentate,  while 
by  no  means  of  a  malignant  disposition,  was  ex 
ceedingly  tenacious  of  his  prerogatives;  and  woe 
betide  the  skipper  who  neglected  to  pay  homage 
by  lowering  his  flag  on  entering  the  domain  of  him 
who  had  at  his  command  all  the  gales  and  tempests 
that  lay  snugly  tucked  away  in  the  recesses  of  the 
hills! 


[41] 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  DUNDERBERG 

GOBLIN  and  kobold  and  elf  and  gnome 
Riot  and  rollick  and  make  their  home 
Deep  in  the  Highlands,  where  Hudson  glides, 
Curving  the  sweep  of  his  volumed  tides 
Round  wooded  islet  and  granite  base 
Down  through  the  rush  of  the  Devil's  Race. 
Great  is  the  prowess  of  Goblin  might; 
Dread  is  the  malice  of  troll  and  sprite; 
Chief  of  them  all  is  the  potent  Dwerg, 
Heer  of  the  Keep  of  the  Dunderberg! 

[421 


Mountain  and  River  obey  his  spell 
E'en  to  the  Island  of  Pollopel; 
Brooding,  he  sits  in  the  rugged  glen, 
Jealous  of  honor  of  sprites  and  men. 
Ye  who  would  sail  his  dominions  through 
Scatheless,  withhold  not  the  homage  due! 
Lower  your  peak  and  its  flaunting  flag! 
Strike! — to  the  Lord  of  the  Thunder  Crag! 

Gracefully  rounded  and  broad  of  beam, 
Breasting  the  calms  of  the  golden  stream, 
Slanting  along  o'er  the  Tappan  Rack, 
Sidled  the  Geertruyd  van  liaagensack. 
Sometimes  she  wobbled,  for,  be  it  told, 
Casked  in  the  darks  of  her  roomy  hold 
Gurgled  the  liquor  of  pleasant  sin — 
Rum  of  Jamaica  and  Holland's  gin! 

Puffing  his  pipe  on  the  after-deck 
Glowered  the  captain,  Gerard  us  Keck — 
Sour  and  headstrong,  but  stout  of  soul, 
Scorner  of  legends  of  spuke  and  troll. 
Up  came  the  boatswain  with  pallid  face: 
"Captain!   we  swing  in  the  Devil's  Race! 

[43] 


Will  ye  not  lower  the  orange  flag 

Here,  in  the  shade  of  the  Thunder  Crag? 

"Dikkop!     Bemoeial!"  the  captain  roared; 

"Durfniet!    the  wrath  of  thy  Goblin  Lord 

Lightly  I  hold  as  a  stoup  of  rum! 

Broom  to  the  masthead! — and  let  'em  come!" 

Shrouding  the  vessel,  before  they  wist, 
Streamed  from  the  Mountain  a  curdling  mist. 
Piercing  the  woof  of  that  leaden  veil 
Pelted  and  rattled  the  heavy  hail. 
Hudson  arose  like  a  tortured  snake, 
Foaming  and  heaving;    the  thunder  spake, 
Rolled  from  the  cliffs,  and  the  lightning  played 
Viciously  red  through  the  pallid  shade! 

Oh!   how  the  elements  howled  and  wailed! 
Oh!    how  the  crew  of  the  Geertruyd  quailed, 
Huddling  together  with  starting  eyes! 
For,  in  the  rack,  like  a  swarm  of  flies, 
Legions  of  goblins  in  doublet  and  hose 
Gamboled  and  frolicked  off  Anthony's  Nose; 
While  on  the  shuddering  masthead  sat 
Cross-legged,  crowned  with  his  steeple-hat, 
Grinning  with  mischief,  that  potent  Dwerg, 
Lord  of  the  Keep  of  the  Dunderberg! 

[44] 


Wild  was  the  laughter 'that  quaking  men 
.Heara,  through  'the'  might  from  the  Goblin*  Glen. 


Brawled  o'er  the  gunwale  the  frothing  tide. 
"Up  with  the  cargo!"  the  captain  cried; 
"Lighten  the  vessel  or  else  we  sink!" 
Over  the  side  went  the  precious  drink! 
Darting  like  swallows,  those  goblin  knaves 
Caught  up  the  casks  ere  they  touched  the  waves. 
Back  to  their  mountains  the  thievish  crew 
Whirled  with  their  booty;    before  them  flew, 
Waving  in  triumph  a  captured  flag, 
He  of  the  Heights  of  the  Thunder  Crag! 

Gone  was  the  tempest!     With  sails  adroop, 
Battered  and  draggled,  the  plundered  sloop, 
Stemming  a  current  without  a  swell, 
Crept  past  the  Island  of  Pollopel. 
Wild  was  the  laughter  that  quaking  men 
Heard  through  the  night  from  the  Goblin  Glen 
Where,  in  a  revel,  the  gleeful  horde 
Drank  to  the  fame  of  their  puissant  Lord! 

Skippers  that  scoff  when  the  sky  is  bright, 

Heed  ye  this  story  of  goblin  might! 

Strange  the  adventures  of  barks  that  come 

Laden  with  cargoes  of  gin  and  rum! 

When  the  Storm  Ship  drives  with  her  head  to  gale 
And  the  corpse-light  gleams  in  her  hollow  sail — 

[47] 


When  Cro'  Nest  laughs  in  the  tempest's  hem 
While  the  lightnings  weave  him  a  diadem — 
When  Storm  King  shouts  through  the  spumy 

wrack 

And  Bull  Hill  bellows  the  thunder  back — 
Beware  of  the  wrath  of  the  mighty  Dwerg! 
Strike  flag  to  the  Lord  of  the  Dunderberg! 


[48] 


THUNDER-STORM 

The  smiths  of  the  heavens  are  mending  the  weather; 
Their  hammers  are  beating  the  fragments  together. 
The  cumulus  mountains  with  nebulous  gorges 
Are  dazzled  with  flame  of  the  wind-bellow  sed  forges; 
The  cloud-pillared  anvils  with  silvery  edges 
Resound  to  the  thunderous  fall  of  the  sledges; 
Till  broadening  patches  of  azure  are  showing 
Storm-welded,  rain-tempered^  and,  splendidly  glow 
ing, 

The  rainbow,  from  valley  to  valley  extended, 
Proclaims  to  the  world  that  the  weather  is  mended. 

[49] 


A  LEGEND  OF  MAIDEN  LANE 

rPO  this  day  the  narrow,  devious  line  of  Maiden 
•*•  Lane  follows  the  course  of  the  lost  rivulet  in 
whose  clear  pool  the  maidens  of  New  Amsterdam 
were  wont  to  wash  the  family  linen,  and  along 
whose  wooded  banks  they  often  strolled  on  sum 
mer  evenings  with  the  right  sort  of  company.  The 
abrupt  ascent  of  the  land  along  Nassau  Street  to 
the  southward  preserves  the  memory  of  the  steep 
hill  on  the  crest  of  which  stood  Jan  Vinge's  wind 
mill,  while  the  more  gradual  slope  to  the  north 
commemorates  the  Klaaver  Waytie,  or  clover 
meadow  of  the  Jan  Jansen  Damen  farm. 

Of  all  the   romances  that  cluster   around   "T* 
Maegde-Padtje,"  or  "The  Maiden's  Path,"  none 
[50] 


is  of  greater  interest  than  that  preserved  in  the 
records  of  an  old  New  York  family,  which  tell 
how  the  founder  of  the  house  was  once  in  that  green 
lane  sorely  tempted  of  the  devil,  of  how  he  was 
strengthened  to  resist  temptation,  and  of  the  good 
fortune  that  was  granted  him. 
5 


A  LEGEND  OF  MAIDEN  LANE 

'TwAS  dusk  in  the  dale,  but  the  clover-clad  hill 
Was  rosy  in  twilight;   the  sails  of  the  mill 
Were  moving  slow  shadows  o'er  hillocks  of  corn 
And  barley;   the  cadence  of  Gabriel's  horn — 
Old  Gabriel  Cropsey's — proclaimed  to  his  cows 
The  close  of  their  hour  to  idle  and  browse; 
When,  down  the  deep  vale  that  the  rivulet  made 
A  gladness  of  shallow  and  rill  and  cascade, 
There  tramped  a  tall  youth  in  a  study  profound, 
His  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 

[5*1 


Unheeding  the  buttercups  raised  for  the  dew, 
Unheeding  the  herdsman's  full-throated  halloo, 
Unheeding  the  large-eyed  reproach  of  the  cows. 
The  droop  of  the  hat  o'er  the  puckering  brows, 
The  stoop  of  the  shoulders  and  head,  made  it  clear 
That  something  was  ailing  with  Corny  van  Leer. 

Yes,  something  was  wrong;  he  was  weary  and  sore 
With  drudging  long  hours,  unthanked,  in  the  store 
Of  Steenwyck  the  merchant,  who  smoked  in  his 

chair, 

Whose  coffers  were  brimming  as  Corny's  were  bare, 
Who  dined  like — a  burgher,  whose  garments  were 

brave. 

"The  man  who  is  poor  might  as  well  be  a  slave!" 
Groaned  Corny.  "Why  toil  till  you're  wrinkled 

and  gray, 

With  wealth  all  around  one  ?  There  must  be  a  way ! 
Suppose — "  "Ah,  suppose!"  purred  a  voice  in  his 

ear 

So  gently  that  Corny  scarce  wondered  to  hear 
That  echo.    He  turned;  and  he  saw,  or  he  dreamed, 
A  tall,  swarthy  Person,  whose  jetty  eyes  gleamed 
Quite  kindly.     A  beaver  he  wore  on  his  head; 
His  cloak  and  his  doublet  were  sable  and  red; 

[53] 


His  breeches  (of  brimstone)  seemed  meagerly  lined, 
And  yet  they  projected  most  queerly  behind! 

"Suppose,  my  good  lad"  (ah!  those  accents  were 

bland!)— 

"Suppose,  my  dear  Corny,  you  had  at  command 
A  few  paltry  guilders?     What  wealth  could   be 

made 

By  dabbling  a  bit  in  the  Indian  trade! 
Now  look  ye!    Old  Steenwyck  has  silver  to  spare, 
And  most  of  it  won  by  your  labor,  I'll  swear; 
Suppose  that  you  borrow  a  handful  or  so 
A  fortnight?     I  warrant  you,  he'll  never  know; 
And — trust  me,  I've  proved  it  too  often  to  doubt — 
The  one  thing  that's  wrongful  is  being  found  out. 
Besides,  when  youVe  made  eighty  guilders  of  ten 
(I'll  show  you  the  way),  you'll  repay  them  again. 

"So" —    Hark!  what  a  melody  toned  in  his  ear! 
What  rich,  golden  laughter,  so  merry  and  clear 
That  bluebird  and  oriole  wakened,  and  sang 
A  duo  to  answer  the  copse  whence  it  rang! 
It  rose  like  a  fountain  that  bursts  through  the  snow; 
It  fell  like  the  waterfall  bubbling  below; 

[54] 


'Twas  thrushes  and  bobolinks  greeting  the  sun 
That  shines  through  the  raindrops  when  showers 

are  done; 

A  breath  of  the  hills  to  the  mist-clouded  plain, 
It  swept  the  black  fog  from  his  heart  and  his  brain. 
Clear-eyed  and  erect,  to  the  Shape  at  his  right 
He  turned — but  the  Tempter  had  vanished  from 

sight! 

Still  rippling  with  merriment,  out  from  the  dell 
Of  hazels  came  Maritje  Bleecker  to  tell 
How,  seeing  a  youth  who  was  everywhere  known 
For  gladness  and  jollity,  brooding  alone 
In  gloomy  despair  of  the  somberest  hue, 
She  laughed,  as  who  wouldn't?    He'd  better  laugh, 
too! 

An  ocean  of  silver  the  heavens  poured  down 
On  the  queer,  gabled  roofs  of  our  dear,  fabled  town 
As,   home   through   the   meadows,   in   moonlight 

and  shade, 

They  wandered  together,  a  man  and  a  maid. 
But  all  that  was  spoken  the  world  may  not  know; 
The  pathways  were  narrow,  their  voices  were  low, 

[55] 


And  no  one  o'erheard  but  the  Crickets  and  Elves; 
That's  all.    You  may  finish  the  story  yourselves. 

Yet,  this  is  to  add;  'tis  a  maxim  of  cheer 
Preserved  in  the  tomes  of  the  House  of  Van  Leer: 
"Of  Naught  is  ye  Duyvil  soe  deeply  affray'd 
As  a  sweete,  wholesome  Laugh  from  ye  Hearte  of 
a  Mayde!" 


[56] 


A  SONG  IN  JUNE 

On  a  rosebush  that  grows  in  the  garden  you  love 
There  are  three  opening  buds  on  a  single  green 
stem; 

And  they  dream  as  they  nod  to  your  window  above 
That  it  would  not  be  June  if  it  were  not  for  them. 

There 's  an  oriole  brave  as  a  prince  on  his  throne 
In  his  orange-and-black  in  the  mulberry-tree. 

As  he  flutes  to  a  world  that  he  knows  for  his  own, 
"Oh,  it  would  not  be  June  if  it  were  not  for  me!" 

[571  ' 


Let  the  oriole  sing  to  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  roses  unfold  to  the  kiss  of  the  dew! 

But  the  light  of  my  soul  is  the  glance  of  your  eye. 
And    it    would    not    be   June    if    it    were    not 
for  you. 


fs«l 


THE  RATTLE-WATCH  OF  NEW 
AMSTERDAM 

"TJ  VEN  in  quiet  New  Amsterdam  laws  were  made 
•^  to  be  broken,  and  as  a  corollary  it  was  needful 
to  establish  a  police  force.  The  code  that  required 
enforcement  included  ordinances  against  fast  driv 
ing,  against  shooting  game  within  the  city  limits, 
against  righting  with  knives,  against  allowing  pigs 
and  goats  to  roam  unrestrained  through  the  metro 
politan  streets,  as  well  as  regulations  governing 
the  liquor  traffic. 

The  police  force  consisted  of  a  Ratelwacht  of 
six  men  who  were  required  to  go  about  the  city 
at  night  calling  out  the  hour,  evidently  so  that 
sleeping  citizens  might  know  it  was  not  yet  time 
to  wake,  and  sounding  their  rattles,  presumably 
to  give  the  evil-intentioned  due  warning  of  their 
approach. 

Among  the  many  regulations  prescribing  what 
these  guardians  of  the  peace  should  and  should  not 
do  was  one  providing  that:  "Whatever  any  of  the 

[59] 


Watch  shall  get  from  any  of  the  prisoners,  whether 
lock-up  money,  present  or  other  fee,  which  those 
of  the  Watch  shall  receive  by  consent  of  the  Bur 
gomasters,  it  shall  be  brought  into  the  hands  of 
the  Captain  for  the  benefit  of  the  fellow-watchmen 
and  shall  be  there  preserved  until  divided  around." 
A  worthy  rule,  doubtless  as  rigorously  followed  in 
those  early  times  as  to-day. 


THE  RATTLE-WATCH  OF  NEW 
AMSTERDAM 

!  —  Rrr!  —  Rrr!  —  Rrr!" 


Hark  to  the  rattle's  discordant  swell! 
"Ten  is  the  hour  and  all  is  well!" 
Musket  on  shoulder  and  dirk  on  thigh, 
Forth  from  the  fort,  with  a  soulful  sigh, 
Wiping  their  lips  of  a  parting  dram, 
Sally  the  Watch  of  New  Amsterdam. 
Smite  with  your  rattles  the  startled  ear! 
Let  every  miscreant  know  you're  near. 
Bellow  the  hour  to  the  sentry  moon! 
Some  honest  burgher  might  wake  too  soon. 
Come,  merry  lover  of  sights  and  sounds, 
Follow  the  Watch  on  their  nightly  rounds! 

Marching  as  though  to  the  roll  of  drums, 
Here  little  Stoffel  the  tailor  comes, 
Drunk  as  a  hero  on  musty  ale, 
Waving  an  arm  like  a  windmill  sail, 


Threat'ning  our  lives  with  his  weighty  goose! 
Bundle  him  off  to  the  calaboose! 

"Hola!    Friend  Watchman!"     "Well,  what's  the 

need?" 

"Sailors  afighting!     Oh,  come  with  speed! — 
Fighting  with  knives  on  the  Water  Street!" 
"Down  on  the  river?    That's  off  my  beat; 
You  go,  young  Joris;  yet,  hark  ye,  boy, 
Meddling  with  tars  is  a  mad  employ. 
Wait  till  they've  done,  like  a  youth  of  brains, 
Then,  to  the  lock-up  with  what  remains!" 

"Ho,  Doktor  Kierstede!    I  take  my  vow 
Here  on  the  highway  I  find  thy  sow, 
Never  a  ring  in  her  nose,  I  say, 
Rooting  the  road  in  a  shameful  way, 
Plainly  defying  the  statute — "   (Clink!) 
"Hsh!  here's  the  captain! — No,  I  don't  drink, 
Not  while  on  duty;  it  isn't  right. 
(Thank  ye,  Heer  Doktor.)     Good  night!     Good 
night!" 

"Softly!    We'll  capture  the  wicked  wight! 
You  to  the  left,  Dirck,  and  Jan  to  right, 


Pieter  in  front  of  him,  I  behind! 

Ha!  have  we  caught  thee,  thou  varlet  blind? 

Little  thou  thoughtest  our  eyes  would  mark 

Stealers  of  cabbages  in  the  dark! 

Now  in  the  pillory  shalt  thou  stand 

Holding  a  cabbage  in  either  hand, 

Yea,  and  a  third  on  thy  cabbage  head — 

Thief  of  the  Dominie's  cabbage-bed!" 

Thus  in  the  days  that  are  called  "of  yore," 
Terror  of  caitiffs,  a  gallant  corps 
Guarded  our  city  for  noble  pay: 
Twenty-four  stuyvers  per  night  or  day 
(Forty-eight  cents  to  our  modern  thrift), 
One  or  two  beavers  by  way  of  gift, 
And,  in  the  winter,  'twas  understood, 
Three  hundred  fagots  of  firewood. 
Wouldn't  it  stagger  the  budget-roll 
If  our  patrolmen  were  paid  in  coal! 


[65] 


MI N ETTA  WATER 
(The  Song  of  the  Buried  Stream) 

Deer-hoof  dint  and  moccasin  print 

Stamped  the  moss  that  rimmed  my  flow; 

Adder  s -tongue  and  fragrant  mint 
Grew — where  nothing  now  may  grow; 

Dragon-flies  in  shimmering  schools 

Reveled  here,  an  airy  rout; 
Minnows  rilled  my  glimmering  pools, 

Through  my  rapids  flashed  the  trout. 

Gone  the  hunter,  fled  the  deer; 

All  the  birds  I  loved  are  flown; 
Men  have  hid  my  waters  clear 

Under  piles  of  rigid  stone. 

Men  have  tombed  my  silver  springs; 

Yet,  within  the  sunless  caves 
All  unheard  my  torrent  sings. 

All  unseen  I  pour  my  waves. 
[66] 


Mocking,  delving,  deep  I  lurk. 

What!  they  dream  my  fount  is  dry? 
Lo!  I  ruin  all  their  work. 

Mortal,  they;  but  deathless,  /. 

Let  them  hold  their  gloomy  day! 

I  that  laugh  shall  rule  at  last. 
When  the  massive  walls  decay, 

When  the  towers  to  earth  are  cast, 

I  shall  flash  a  clearer  sun, 
I  shall  lure  my  birds  again; 

Deep  in  bloom  my  streams  shall  run 
Through  the  crumbled  homes  of  men. 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW 

SOME  day — let  it  be  in  the  apple-blossom  sea 
son  or  else  in  early  October  when  the  Palisades 
across  the  river  are  ablaze  with  changing  leaves — 
make  your  little  pilgrimage  through  the  loveliest 
country  in  the  world  to  the  old  churchyard  of 
Tarrytown  where  the  sunny-hearted  enchanter 
whose  spell  forever  hallows  the  valley  of  the  Hud 
son  lies  asleep.  Although  time  has  wrought  cruel 
changes  in  the  neighboring  town,  you  will  find 
that  the  little  secluded  nook  by  the  Pocantico  is 
[68] 


yet  subject  to  the  drowsy  influence  that  pervaded 
it  in  the  days  of  Geoffrey  Crayon  and  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker. 

In  reference  to  the  cause  of  the  slumberous  at 
mosphere  of  the  Hollow  the  great  chronicler  of 
New  Amsterdam  rather  dubiously  observes,  "Some 
say  that  the  place  was  bewitched  by  a  High  Ger 
man  doctor,  during  the  early  days  of  the  settle 
ment;  others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prophet 
or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  powwows  there." 

Should  any  ardent  controversialists  quarrel  in 
behalf  of  one  or  the  other  of  these  alternative  ex 
planations,  they  are  like  to  find  themselves  in  the 
plight  of  the  two  opinionated  knights  who  met  in 
mortal  combat  upon  the  question  of  whether  the 
shield  was  silver  or  gold,  only  to  learn  as  they 
lay  dying  of  their  wounds  that  one  side  was  of 
the  yellow  metal,  the  other  of  the  white.  So,  lest 
any  such  foul  debate  arise  to  break  the  sacred 
peace  of  the  Hollow,  do  I  tell  this  true  tale  of 
its  bewitching,  learned  on  one  of  many  tarryings 
in  the  enchanted  region. 


69] 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW 

TWAS  in  the  drowsy  Moon  of  Falling  Leaves, 
And  waning  summer  gave  a  softer  glow, 

And  apples  dropped,  and  hosts  of  yellow  sheaves 
Were  bravely  tented  where  Pocantico 

Devolves  his  lazy  waters  through  the  nave 
Of  sunny  hills,  and  past  the  silent  peak 

That  casts  a  somber  shadow  o'er  the  cave 
Of  Maqua,  Wizard  of  the  Wecquaesgeek — 

When,  up  the  winding  way  from  Hudson's  shore, 
Came  Doktor  Nebelhut,  the  German  Sage, 

To  sound  the  fountains  of  forbidden  lore 
In  mystic  council  with  the  Forest  Mage. 

Above  the  Wizard's  portal,  huge  and  hard, 
A  balanced  crag  had  worn  itself  a  place 

When  rocked  by  winter  tempests — deeply  scarred 
With  dumb  inscriptions  of  a  vanished  race; 

[70] 


And  long  that  rugged  sentinel  had  viewed 
The  sylvan  peace  of  Hudson's  rolling  glades, 

The  River's  breadth  of  silver  solitude, 
The  furrowed  grandeur  of  his  Palisades. 

Within  the  crypt  discoursed  the  Sages  twain, 
In  fellowship  of  craft  and  eager  zest 

As  if  from  one  deep  chalice  they  would  drain 
The  mingled  wizardry  of  East  and  West — 

Of  charms  to  bring  the  butter  to  the  churn, 
Of  spells  to  call  the  red  deer  from  the  wold, 

Love  philters,  incantations  to  discern 

The  haunted  hiding-place  of  pirate  gold; 

Dark,  awful  runes  that  might  not  be  expressed, 
Dread  weirds,  the  thought  of  which  is  deadly  sin! 

And  now  the  Doktor  drew  from  out  his  vest 
A  quaintly  fashioned  pouch  of  cobra-skin. 

"This  holds,"  said  he,  "a  leaf  that  giveth  calm — 
Yea,  even  as  thy  fragrant-fuming  weed — 

But,  blent  with  mandragora's  potent  balm 
And  soothing  essence  of  the  poppy-seed, 

[71] 


"When  I  do  blow  its  azure  vapor  forth 
In  melting  wreaths,  o'er  valley,  plain,  and  hill, 

Who  breathes  it — east  or  west  or  south  or  north — 
Shall  droop  in  childlike  slumber  at  my  will!" 

The  Red  Man's  cheek  was  wrinkled  in  a  smile: 
"A  mighty  medicine,  O  Friend,  is  thine! 

And  dare  I  tell  to  thee  the  simple  wile 
We  learn  amid  the  whispers  of  the  pine? 

"Then  hear! — The  willow's  ruddy  bark  I  burn 
Within  my  pipe.     Upon  the  coal  I  fling 

These  russet  seedlets,  brushed  from  plumes  of  fern 
In  moonlight  by  the  howlet's  velvet  wing. 

"Within  the  bowl  the  crimson  sparkle  gleams! 

Upon  the  air  the  hazy  fillets  rise! 
Who  scents  that  cloud  shall  drowse  in  wondrous 

dreams, 

While  I  shall  walk  unseen  of  mortal  eyes!" 

Then  half  in  pique,  "Well  spoke!"  the  Doktor  said, 
"My  swarthy  Brother! — Prithee,  let  us  show 

Our  magic's  force!"  The  Wizard  bowed  his  head. 
The  pipes  were  lit;  and  upward-rolling  slow 

[72] 


From  creamy  meerschaum,  waif  of  Graecia's  wave, 
And  dark  red  sandstone  dug  of  prairie  fells, 

The  heavy  incense  filled  the  narrow  cave, 

And  outward  surging,  veiled  the  golden  dells. 

Throughout  the  vale,  where'er  that  vapor  crept, 
The  busy  farmer  dozed  beside  his  wain; 

The  housewife  in  the  dairy  sighed,  and  slept; 
The  fisher  let  his  line  unheeded  strain; 

The  bronze-limbed  hunter  slacked  his  arching  bow; 

The  deer  forgot  to  leap,  the  hawk  to  fly; 
The  lilies  drooped;  the  hemlock  nodded  low, 

And  every  aster  closed  its  purple  eye. 

Of  them  that  wrought  the  marvel  ? — Strange  their 
plight! 

In  vain  they  strove  against  the  magic  hest! 
Till,  smiling  each  to  each  a  long  "Good-night," 

They  closed  their  eyes  in  twice-enchanted  rest. 

And  e'en  the  sentry  boulder  knew  the  charm; 

Awhile  it  quivered  like  a  blade  of  grass, 
Then,  sliding  softly  as  a  sleeper's  arm, 

It  sealed  the  cavern  with  its  granite  mass. 

[73] 


Around  that  cave  the  leafy  creepers  cling, 
Above  its  roof  in  summer,  roses  blow; 

And  o'er  the  mossy  portal,  in  the  spring 
The  dogwood  pours  its  avalanche  of  snow. 

And  still  they  doze — the  necromantic  twain, 
While  from  their  pipes  the  witching  fumes  arise; 

And  still,  when  Indian  Summer  bows  the  grain, 
That  eery  vapor  dims  the  tender  skies. 

And  still  the  valley  lies  beneath  a  spell; 

And  wondrous  clouds  and  visions  they  do  know 
Who  loiter  in  the  dream-enchanted  dell 

That  hears  the  murmur  of  Pocantico. 


[74] 


A  SPRINGTIME  PILGRIMAGE 

Feet  on  the  hills  and  heads  in  the  sky, 
Bathing  our  brows  in  the  breath  of  springy 

Buoyant  and  youthful  and  clear  of  eye 
Over  a  glorified  road  we  swing. 

Meadows  are  greening  their  winter  tan, 
Orchards  are  heavy  with  scented  snow. 

On!  through  the  Vale  of  the  Nepperhan, 
Over  the  Heights  of  Pocantico! 

Dogwood  and  laurel  and  trailing  pine 
Mantle  the  furrowed  and  craggy  scaurs; 

Creamy  dicentra  and  columbine 
Nod  oer  the  ashes  of  buried  wars; 

[751 


Rebel  and  Tory  have  made  their  bed — 
Harmless,  their  sabers  a  truce  have  found 

Under  the  verdure  that  lifts  our  tread, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  Neutral  Ground. 

(Here  is  the  church  on  the  haunted  ridge, 
Lichens  of  centuries  fleck  the  sides; 

Shrouded  and  headless,  o'er  yonder  bridge 
Nightly  the  Galloping  Hessian  rides. 

(What  though  a  burden  of  moldered  stones 
Cover  their  forms  from  the  eyes  of  men! 

Ichabod,  Baltus,  and  Big  Brom  Bones 
Rise  through  the  magic  of  Irving  s  pen.) 

Hudson  in  majesty  meets  the  sea — 

Monarch  of  mountains  and  goblin  glades; 

Laughing,  the  ripple  of  Tappan  Zee 
Mocks  at  the  frown  of  the  Palisades. 

Slumbers  the  land  in  a  golden  spell. 

Hush!     The  Enchanter  hath  laid  him  down, 
Close  by  the  river  he  loved  so  well, 

Here  in  the  Hollow  of  Tarrytown. 

[76] 


A  SCANDAL  IN  NEW  AMSTERDAM 

CVERY  Saturday  morning  New  Amsterdam 
•^  was  enlivened  by  the  weekly  market  held 
at  the  Strand,  or  East  River  water-front,  near  the 
house  of  Dr.  Hans  Kierstede,  which  stood  on  the 
north  side  of  Pearl  Street  and  the  corner  of  Moore 
Street,  where  were  the  weighing-house  and  the 
only  little  dock  in  the  town. 

Thither  came  the  country-folk  from  Haarlem, 
Breuckelen,  Vlissingen  (Flushing),  Hoboken-Hack- 
ing,  Ompoge  (Amboy),  Ahasimus,  and  New  Utrecht 
in  carts,  on  horseback,  in  shallops,  canoes,  or 
market-boats  which  they  moored  in  the  Heera 
Graft  or  Broad  Street  canal,  bringing  their  sup 
plies  of  veal,  pork,  butter,  cheese,  milk,  tobacco, 
peaches,  cider,  herbs,  melons,  oysters,  shad,  chick 
ens,  geese,  turkeys,  pelicans,  eel-shovelers,  and 
quail  to  exchange  for  linsey-woolsey  cloth,  medi 
cines,  arrack,  sugar,  ribbons,  caps,  and  finery  for 
Sunday  wear,  clay  pipes  and  like  commodities  of 
town  life,  for  Dutch  guilders  and  stuyvers  or  for 

[77] 


Indian  sewant  or  wampum  which  was  the  principal 
circulating  medium  in  the  days  of  Wilhelmus  Kieft. 
Thither  came  the  Indians  of  Long  Island  and  the 
Hudson  River  country  with  venison  and  other 
game  and  packs  of  furs  and  skins — beaver,  mink, 
bear,  wolf,  wildcat,  and  panther.  There  gathered 
the  farmers'  wives  and  daughters,  keen  for  bar 
gaining,  but  just  as  eager  to  exchange  gossip  with 
the  ladies  of  the  city. 

In  default  of  newspapers,  all  the  news  of  the 
day  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth;  and  if  a  few 
choice  scandals  were  thus  put  in  circulation,  they 
were  assuredly  no  worse  than  many  that  have 
been  whispered  at  the  tea-drinkings  of  later  days. 
The  scandal  referred  to  in  the  title  is  embalmed 
in  New  Amsterdam's  early  records  of  litigation. 


A  SCANDAL  IN  NEW  AMSTERDAM 

ACROSS  the  inlet's  ebb  and  rise 
The  spotless  houses  glare  surprise 
From  all  their  gable-hooded  eyes 

On  motley,  mingling  craft — 
The  light  canoe  from  wilds  remote, 
The  blunt  bateau  and  market-boat, 
And  shallop,  dugout,  skiff,  and  float 

Within  "Die  Heere  Graft." 

The  bronze  Mohegan  brings  the  spoil 
Of  wood  and  river;  what  the  soil 
Hath  yielded  to  his  sturdy  toil, 

With  plaintive  calf  and  lamb 
The  farmer  hales  in  groaning  dray 
Along  the  forest-bordered  way, 
For  this  is  held  a  market  day 

In  fair  New  Amsterdam. 

Like  finches,  round  the  market-boats 
The  rosy  vrouws,  with  kerchiefed  throats 
And  short  but  ample  petticoats 

[79] 


And  hoods  and  kirtles  gay, 
Are  gathering  and  scattering 
And  chaffering  and  chattering, 
The  Ninth  Commandment  shattering; 

Then  hark  to  what  they  say! 

"Thou  coppery  knave  with  the  cloven  ear! 
Pray,  what  is  thy  charge  for  this  puny  deer? 
Twelve  stuyvers  in  wampum!    As  I'm  alive 
Such  venison  wouldn't  be  cheap  at  five! 
You  savages,  verily,  grow  too  bold; 
Dost  fancy  our  burghers  are  made  of  gold? 
Go!    Take  it  away  to  thy  woods  again! 
Eleven  thou  sayest?     I'll  give  thee  ten." 

"Ah,  Mevrouw  von  Blarcom!  we  meet  again! 
What  news  from  the  village  of  Vlissingen? 
Soh!    Adrian  Joostan  is  gone  at  last! 
Poor  man;  'tis  a  mercy  his  woes  are  past. 
Yea?    Journeyed  to  Hartford  hath  Pieter  Volck! 
How  reckless  to  trust  to  the  Yankee  folk! 
Nay,  little  of  moment  hath  passed  in  town. 
The  governor's  dame  hath  a  silken  gown. 
Hast  heard  of  the  strife  'twixt  our  Dominie 
Bogardus  and  Antony  Jan  Salee? 

[so] 


"The  trouble  was  started,  so  all  avow, 
By  Anneke  Jansen,  the  Dominie's  vrouw, 
Who,  chatting  one  Saturday  over  her  tea, 
Spake  somewhat  unkindly  of  Vrouw  Salee; 
Mayhap  that  her  linens  were  none  too  clean, 
Her  servants  ill-bred,  or  her  larder  lean. 
Whatever  she  said  of  her,  I'll  be  bound 
It  lost  not  a  jot  as  it  traveled  round; 
And,  truthful  or  slanderous,  let  that  be, 
It  kindled  the  wrath  of  the  Vrouw  Salee, 
Who  rushed  to  her  friends  with  a  look  intense 
To  tell  them,  in  veriest  confidence, 
How,  crossing  a  street  of  this  muddy  town, 
Good  Madam  Bogardus  had  raised  her  gown — 
M-m,  higher  than  prudent.     Yea,  showed,  indeed, 
Well — more  of  her  ankles  than  there  was  need! 

"Then  such  a  commotion  you  never  saw! 
Vrouw  Anneke  vowed  she  would  have  the  law. 
The  Dominie  sued  for  his  dame  (of  course 
Thou  knowest  the  mare  is  the  better  horse). 
The  Schepens  with  sober  and  solemn  face 
Examined  and  pondered  the  weighty  case, 
And  sentenced  poor  Madam  Salee  to  tell 
In  public,  at  sound  of  the  crier's  bell, 
7  [83] 


That  falsely  she'd  spoken — alack,  the  shame! — • 
And  the  Dominie's  wife  was  a  worthy  dame. 
Moreover,  her  husband  hath  sadly  paid 
Three  guilders  and  more  for  his  wife's  tirade. 

"Good  faith!  but  our  magistrates  win  applause, 
So  wisely  and  well  they  enforce  the  laws! 
For  truly  the  tongue  is  a  two-edged  sword, 
And  Slander's  a  monster  that  stalks  abroad, 
Devouring  all  with  a  mouth  of  flame; 
And  no  one  is  safe  from  the  smudge  of  blame. 
(But — this  is  in  confidence  'twixt  us  two — 
I  firmly  believe  that  the  tale  was  true!)" 


KISSING  BRIDGE 

(Once  at  the  junction  of  Roosevelt  Street  and  Park  Row.} 

No  Roebling  reared  that  primal  way 
With  web  of  steel  and  splendid  line; 

Its  piers  were  rubble,  crude  and  gray, 
Its  beams  were  hewn  of  forest  pine. 

Across  the  kill  that  eastward  flowed 
It  led,  unjarred  by  rumbling  tram, 

Where  grasses  waved  and  lilies  glowed; 
New  York  was  then  Nieuw  Amsterdam. 

With  rake  and  scythe  at  droop  of  day, 
With  lilt  and  carol  full  and  free, 

The  maids  and  younkers  hold  their  way 
Along  the  shadowed  Bouwerie. 

A  playful  whisper  stirs  the  trees, 
A  laughing  ripple  rills  the  shoal, 

For  here,  as  village  law  decrees, 

The  sweetest  lips  must  pay  the  toll. 

[85] 


Good  Saint  that  loved  our  isle,  restore 
That  hallowed  bridge,  to  span  a  tide 

With  blowing  fields  on  either  shore; 
Let  me  be  there  with  one  beside! 

Dispel  this  cloud  of  stone  and  steel, 
These  clogging  mists  of  tawdry  sham! 

Let  lips  be  frank  and  hearts  be  leal 
As  then  in  old  Nieuw  Amsterdam! 


[86] 


0q 

£ 

s: 


A  TRIAL  IN  NEW  AMSTERDAM 

AN  is  a  quarrelsome  animal  and  his  social 
and  political   history  is  largely  a  record  of 
battles  and  suits-at-law. 

Dry  as  some  might  think  them,  the  records  of 
the  Court  of  Burgomasters  and  Schepens  of  New 
Amsterdam  contain  the  germs  of  many  rare  tales 
and  are  delightful  in  their  naive  gravity.  From 
them  one  may  glean  that  the  good  people  of  the 
town  sometimes  failed  to  pay  their  taxes;  that 
they  sometimes  engaged  in  fisticuffs;  that  they 
frequently  violated  the  liquor  laws;  that  they  even 
took  unfair  advantage  of  one  another  in  business 
transactions;  and  that  they  were  woefully  addicted 
to  slander,  backbiting,  and  the  calling  of  evil 
names — in  short,  that  they  were  very  human. 


As  for  the  judgments  of  the  primitive  court, 
they  were  of  the  Solomonic  order.  Never  did  that 
worthy  tribunal  walk  around  the  square  in  order 
to  reach  the  house  next  door.  Perhaps  its  de 
cisions  were  not  monuments  of  legal  erudition, 
but  they  were  simple,  direct,  and  satisfying  to 
the  unscientific  lay  mind,  and  in  all  probability 
generally  made  for  justice.  Witness  a  case  in 
point. 


90] 


A  TRIAL  IN  NEW  AMSTERDAM 

YE  who  have  chafed  at  the  law's  delays 

And  the  tedious  trials  of  later  days — 

Ye  who  have  laughed  at  the  sage  pretense 

That  ponders  ridiculous  evidence — 

Hear  of  a  process,  devoid  of  sham, 

In  the  trim  little  town  of  New  Amsterdam. 

Burgher  Jan  Haeckius  standeth  here 
Claiming  his  due  for  a  keg  of  beer 
Sold — on  the  record  this  fact  stands  proven- 
To  crafty  Jacobus  Van  Couwenhouven. 
Cometh  Jacobus,  that  wily  man, 
Boldly  admitting  the  sale  by  Jan, 
Natheless  maintaining  no  pay  is  due, 
Seeing  the  beer  is  a  worthless  brew, 
Muddy  of  color  and  flat  and  sour, 
Drawn  from  the  vat  in  an  evil  hour. 
Further,  he  claimeth  of  startled  Jan 
Gold  for  redress  of  his  inner  man. 

[91] 


What  did  the  worshipful  Schepens  do? 
Think  you  they  summoned  a  learned  crew 
Laden  with  volumes,  retorts,  and  vials 
Such  as  bewilder  our  modern  trials? 
Nothing  of  ptomaines  nor  germs  knew  they; 
Naught  of  the  microbe  that  stalks  by  day; 
Nothing  they  knew  of  those  wondrous  men 
Skilled  in  the  slights  of  the  subtle  pen. 
Nothing  they  knew  of  our  modern  shame — 
Perjury  sanctioned  by  Learning's  name. 
The  highway  to  Justice  was  broad  and  clear: 
"Court  is  adjourned  to  inspect  the  beer." 


. 
Out  to  the  open  the  jury  wan 

With  doubtful  Jacobus  and  hopeful  Jan. 
Nothing  was  heard  for  an  hour  or  twain 
But  mellow  gurgles,  the  soft  refrain 
Of  deep-drawn  breathing  and  smack  of  zest 
That  tell  of  the  spirit  of  man  at  rest, 
While  the  jury,  seated  along  a  fence, 
Absorbed  and  digested  the  evidence. 

Seemly  the  session,  though  all  too  short 
E'en  for  the  litigants.     Soon  the  Court 
Gravely  convened  at  its  former  stand, 
Wiping  its  mouth  on  the  back  of  its  hand, 
And  spake  with  conviction,  as  jurors  should: 
"Verdict  for  plaintiff.     Said  beer  was  good." 


[93 


ON   THE  HARLEM 

The  hand  that  ruled  the  helm  was  yours, 
The  arm  that  bent  the  oar  was  mine; 

The  breeze  that  blew  across  the  moors 
Was  breath  of  meadows  blent  with  brine; 

It  whirled  the  reddened  leaf  along, 
It  stirred  your  silken-tendriled  hair, 

It  teased  the  wave  to  rill  in  song, 
It  played  upon  my  shoulders  bare. 


In  time  with  even  dip  and  swing 
And  crisp  of  feathered  oars  aslant, 

We  roused  the  crags  where  laurels  cling 
With  Eton's  mellow  rowing-chant. 

[94] 


So  down  that  sparkling  reach  we  came 
On  keel  of  cedar,  silver-shod, 

Our  bows  aglow  with  leaves  aflame 
And  gunwale-deep  in  goldenrod. 


[95] 


WILLIAM  THE  TESTY 

\X7ILHELMUS  KIEFT  is  generally  admitted 
*  to  have  been  the  worst  of  the  Dutch  gov 
ernors  of  New  York;  and,  even  waiving  his  minor 
faults  and  offenses,  he  undoubtedly  deserves  that 
bad  eminence  because  of  his  cruelty  and  perfidy 
which  brought  upon  the  settlement  the  most  ter 
rible  of  the  Indian  wars  that  hampered  its  growth. 
Still  it  is  to  be  remembered  in  his  favor  that  he 
maintained  the  city's  basic  traditions  of  tolerance 
and  hospitality  by  welcoming  fugitives  from  re 
ligious  bigotry,  such  as  Lady  Deborah  Moody, 
from  less  liberal  New  England;  and  also  it  is  well 
to  bear  in  mind  that  Washington  Irving' s  lively 
caricature  of  the  peppery  little  Director  in  his 
brimstone  breeches  was  actually  a  satire  on  Thomas 

[96] 


Jefferson.  For  fear  that  I  may  be  accused  of  fol 
lowing  too  closely  in  Irving's  footsteps  by  like 
wise  applying  the  past  to  the  immediate  present, 
I  must  plead  that  the  following  ballad  was  written 
and  printed  in  the  year  1900. 


97 


WILLIAM  THE  TESTY 

AFAR  in  the  ages  of  quaint  renown 

There  ruled  o'er  the  germ  of  this  mighty  town 

A  potentate,  famed  for  a  wondrous  knack 

Of  breeding  dissension  and  brewing  wrack. 

Oh,  he  was  a  tart  little  pepper-pot! 

A  simmering  kettle,  forever  hot! 

A  hedgehog  abristle  with  puissant  ire, 

A  little  volcano  of  smothered  fire; 

Forever  intruding  a  muddling  hand 

In  matters  beyond  him  to  understand, 

Upsetting  the  work  of  a  dozen  men 

And  fuming  and  fussing  enough  for  ten. 

A  meddlesome,  quarrelsome,  peevish  sprite, 

He  bustled  and  bickered  from  dawn  till  night. 

He  troubled  his  folk  with  a  hundred  griefs; 

He  kindled  the  rage  of  the  savage  chiefs, 

And   tomahawk,   arrow,  and   brand  came  down 

Through  desolate  fields  to  a  mourning  town. 

Though  skilled  in  the  practice  of  wordy  strife 
And  cursed  with  a  tongue  like  a  poisoned  knife, 

[98] 


He  fronted  a  foeman  of  like  degree 
When  he  blundered  afoul  of  the  Dominie. 
For  Parson  Bogardus,  the  stern  and  leal, 
Was  deeply  concerned  for  the  public  weal, 
And  loudly  he  thundered  in  strong  dispraise, 
Denouncing  the  governor's  evil  ways. 
"The  preacher's  a  sot!"  came  the  fierce  retort; 
"His  sermons  are  stupid  and  none  too  short!" 
Small  wonder,  forsooth,  that  the  parson  dinned 
His  wrath  from  the  pulpit:    "Ach!  Duyvil's  kind! 
Defamer  of  righteousness!"  then  a  roar — 
"My  goats  are  as  good  as  the  governor!" 
The  magistrate's  vengeance  was  swift  and  fell; 
He  marshaled  his  troops  at  the  stroke  of  bell, 
And  vainly  the  Dominie  strove  to  cheer 
The  sinning  and  sorrowful;  every  ear 
WTith  drum-roll  and  trumpet  and  martial  sound 
WTas  filled,  and  the  sermon  was  wholly  drowned! 

The  burghers,  aghast  at  the  wild  debate 
And  utter  disruption  of  Church  and  state, 
Deported  the  disputants  out  of  hand 
To  settle  their  feud  in  the  fatherland. 
The  governor  burdened  the  vessel's  hold 
With  marvelous  treasure  of  goblin  gold 
8  [99] 


Achieved  under  starlight  and  lantern-glow 
In  the  mystical  mines  of  the  Ramapo. 
Thus  laden,  the  vessel  was  tempest  tossed, 
And  parson  and  governor  both  were  lost! 
Yet — there  is  a  legend  in  hut  and  hall 
That  Governor  Kieft  wasn't  drowned  at  all! 
But,  spirited  off  with  his  fairy  gold, 
He  drowses  and  dreams  in  a  mountain  hold 
Like  Arthur,  or  Ogier  the  lordly  Dane, 
Some  day  to  return  to  his  own  domain. 

And  now  when  a  bickering  breaks  the  gloom 
And  wakens  old  ghosts  in  the  mayor's  room, 
When  portly  commissioners  dread  the  ban 
That  darts  from  the  orbs  of  a  mighty  man, 
When  frightened  attendants  stand  quaking  by 
And  browbeat  petitioners  turn  and  fly, 
Methinks  he  hath  come  to  his  home  once  more — 
The  stanch  little  burgh  on  the  Hudson's  shore; 
'Tis  William  the  Testy,  no  modern  sham, 
That  governs  the  town  of  New  Amsterdam! 


f  100 


THE  ROAD 

My  way  of  life  is  a  winding  road, 

A  road  that  wanders,  yet  turns  not  back. 

Where  one  should  go  with  as  light  a  load 
As  well  may  be  in  a  traveler  s  pack; 

A  road  that  rambles  through  marsh  and  wood, 
Meadow  and  waste,  to  the  cloudy  end; 

But,  smooth  or  rugged,  I  find  it  good, 
For  something  s  always  around  the  bend. 

There  may  be  storms  in  the  bleak  defiles, 
But  oh,  the  calm  of  the  valley's  breast! 

There  may  be  toil  on  the  upward  miles, 
But  oh,  the  joy  of  the  mountain-crest! 

And  here's  a  thistle  and  there's  a  rose, 
And  next — whatever  the  road  may  send; 

For  onward  ribbons  the  way  I  chose. 

With  something  always  around  the  bend. 
[101] 


Then  come,  and  travel  my  road  'with  me 
Through  windy  passes  or  waves  of  flowers! 

Though  long  and  weary  the  march  may  be, 
The  rover's  blessing  shall  still  be  ours: 

"A  noonday  halt  at  a  crystal  well, 

A  word  and  smile  with  a  passing  friend, 

A  song  to  sing  and  a  tale  to  tell, 

And  something  coming  around  the  bend!"' 


102  ] 


THE  PIRATE'S   SPUKE 

TN  1612  Captain  Adrian  Block  established  a 
*  trading-post  on  the  island  of  Manhattan,  and 
two  years  later,  in  the  Onrust  or  Restless,  a  stout 
craft  of  native  pine,  the  first  ship  ever  launched 
in  the  waters  of  New  York,  he  set  forth  on  his 
memorable  voyage  of  exploration  along  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  island  into  the  unknown  Sound. 
On  the  figurative  map  of  his  expedition  that  he 
caused  to  be  made,  "Hellegatt"  appears  as  the 
name  of  the  arm  of  the  sea  that  we  now  call  the 
East  River;  and  it  is  evident  that  the  patriotic 
captain  named  the  strait  in  honor  of  "De  Helle 
gatt,"  that  is,  "the  bright  or  beautiful  pass,"  a 
stream  that  flows  into  the  West  Schelde  through 
the  southern  part  of  his  own  province  of  Zeeland, 
that  nurse  of  hardy  sailors.  But  after  sundry 
Dutch  skippers  had  met  with  trouble  and  disaster 
among  the  rocks,  whirlpools,  and  currents  off"  Hal- 
let's  Point,  they  testily  changed  the  name  to 
"Hel-gatt,"  or,  as  we  make  it,  "Hell  Gate,"  con- 
[103] 


fining  the  application  of  that  ominous  title  to  the 
region  of  danger. 

Now  it  is  notorious  that  the  devil  never  declines 
an  invitation,  and  from  that  moment  the  passage 
became  a  veritable  picnic-ground  for  all  the  imps; 
and  its  rocks — the  Hog's  Back,  the  Hen  and 
Chickens,  the  Frying-pan  and  the  Pot — were  the 
scene  of  many  an  infernal  revel  until  the  spirits  of 


[104] 


evil  were  exorcised  by  the  potent  charm  of  dyna 
mite  in  1876. 

The  identity  of  a  dreadful  apparition,  the  pirate's 
spuke,  or  ghost,  that  haunted  Hell  Gate  until 
shot  with  a  silver  bullet  by  Governor  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  has  long  been  a  matter  of  dispute. 
The  infant  colony  of  New  Amsterdam  was  visited 
by  many  pirates,  such  as  Captain  Sebastian  de 
Raeff,  and  doubtless  some  of  these  perished  in  the 
wild  tide-rush  of  the  East  River  in  their  attempts 
to  reach  the  town  through  the  treacherous  channel. 
Perhaps  the  ghost  was  that  of  Captain  de  Raeff 
himself,  perhaps  it  was  that  of  his  lieutenant,  Jan 
van  Campen;  perhaps — but  the  secret  is  lost  be 
neath  the  foam  of  Hell  Gate. 


[105] 


THE   PIRATE'S   SPUKE 

LEAVE  the  dull  present,  to  seek  awhile 
The  little  Dutch  burgh  on  Manhattan  Isle 
Under  that  ruler  of  adamant, 
Sturdy  old  Governor  Stuyvesant. 
Here  is  a  circle  of  broad-backed  men 
Harking,  while  Trumpeter  Pietersen 
Opens  a  budget  of  wondrous  lore 
Of  the  deeds  of  the  doughty  old  governor; 
Sings  him  triumphant  o'er  man  and  elf; 
Yea  (whisper  low!),  o'er  the  Duyvil  himself! 

In  the  rock-toothed  strait  where  the  three  tides  meet 

Ye  may  cast  your  lines  at  will 
While  the  sun  is  high  in  an  honest  sky 

And  the  ravening  wave  is  still; 

But    'ware  the  reefs!  under  midnight's  roof 

When  the  roaring  eddies  swell! 
For  the  rocks  are  marked  with  the  cloven  hoof 

And  the  smut  of  the  brands  of  hell. 
[106] 


Like  a  slavered  wolf  the  torrent  moans 
And  raves  through  deeps  and  shoals; 

The  air  is  filled  with  the  warning  groans 
And  wails  of  perished  souls; 

And  the  Duyvil  squats  on  the  Hog's  Back  high 
When  the  angry  cloud-banks  form, 

And  his  fiddle  squalls  to  the  murky  sky 
In  hail  of  the  brewing  storm. 

So  he  snareth  fish  for  his  grimy  clan, 
And  the  foaming  brine  brawls  hot 

As  he  griddles  his  prey  on  the  Frying-pan 
Or  seethes  it  in  the  Pot! 

All  day  a  sun  of  sullen  red 

Through  mists  had  glowered  down; 

That  night  'twas  inky  black  o'erhead 
And  a  wild  wind  smote  the  town. 

The  March  sky  broke  with  a  crashing  roar, 

But  never  a  raindrop  fell; 
And  a  dreadful  laugh  shook  the  eastern  shore — 

The  mirthless  laugh  of  hell! 

[107] 


There,  in  the  curd  of  the  churning  vat 
Where  naught  of  earth  could  float, 

A  black-faced,  scar-browed  seaman  sat 
In  the  stern  of  a  tossing  boat. 

He  wore  a  scarf  at  his  evil  throat, 

And  the  hat  of  a  picaroon, 
And  every  boss  of  his  blue  sea-coat 

Was  a  shining  gold  doubloon. 

His  belt  of  net  with  pistolet 
And  burnished  dirk  was  hung; 

The  thunder's  growl  and  tempest's  howl 
Waxed  louder  as  he  sung: 

"Oh,  golden  Main  and  fleets  of  Spain! 

No  more  my  chests  ye  fill, 
For  here  I  stay  till  Judgment  Day 

To  work  my  Master's  will!" 

Out  stumped  our  stanch  old  governor, 

A  musket  in  his  hand: 
"Now  get  thee  gone,  thou  devil's  spawn, 

Nor  longer  vex  my  land!" 
fioSl 


"Oh,  I  may  not  go  and  I  will  not  go," 

That  girding  goblin  cried, 
"While  the  trade-winds  blow  and  the  salt  waves 

flow 

And  the  white  moon  rules  the  tide." 

"Thou  wretched  fry!  wouldst  thou  defy 

My  will  with  tawdry  spell? 
Thou  thing  unclean,  thou  ghoul  obscene, 

Hence!  hie  thee  back  to  hell!" 

"Oh,  silver  and  gold,  and  silver  and  gold! 

Rich,  rich  my  Master's  fee! 
So  here  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  he  looseth  me." 

The  governor  raised  his  musket  true 
And  aimed  through  spume  and  brine: 

"Dost  silver  crave,  thou  losel  knave? 
Then  take  this  gift  of  mine!" 

The  bullet  was  cast  of  the  silver  bright; 

'Twas  blessed  by  the  Dominie 
With  a  mystic  word — and  it  smote  that  sprite 

In  the  place  where  a  heart  should  be. 

[109] 


A  cry  like  the  scream  of  a  dying  horse, 

A  flurry  of  smoke  and  flame 
Of  lurid  red — and  the  phantom  fled 

To  the  place  from  whence  he  came. 

The  great  wind  sank  to  a  maiden's  prayer, 

The  guttural  thunder  died, 
The  moonbeam  dropped  through  a  crystal  air 

To  dance  on  a  dimpling  tide. 

And  the  strait  is  free  of  the  fiendish  art 

And  the  power  of  goblins  ill, 
For  they  fear  the  wrath  of  a  fearless  heart 

And  the  force  of  an  iron  will. 


no] 


STORM  SIGNALS 

Cloud-wreath,  mist-sheath, 

Burr  about  the  moon, 
A  dawn  of  red,  a  vault  of  lead: 

A  storm's  a-coming  soon. 

Sea-gull,  free  gull 

Flit  across  the  sand: 
A  dirty  sea  there1  s  sure  to  be 

When  you  re  upon  the  land. 

Mare's  tails,  mare's  tails 

Sweep  a  mackerel  sky: 
Oh,  reef  your  sail  before  the  gale — 

The  foam  is  bound  to  fly! 


A  DEAL  IN  REAL  ESTATE 

"\  1  7HILE  the  early  history  of  the  colonies  on 
*  *  Manhattan  was  stained  by  several  cruel 
Indian  wars,  the  relations  between  the  Dutch 
settlers  and  the  aborigines  were  generally  not  un 
pleasant,  and,  despite  the  fact  that  the  pale-face 
had  an  uncomfortable  habit  of  getting  the  best  of 
the  bargain,  there  are  many  instances  of  warm 
friendships  between  red  and  white. 


[112] 


A  DEAL  IN  REAL  ESTATE 

BARENDT  CUYLER,  Indian  trader, 
Shrewd,  but  honest  as  the  light, 

Merry-hearted,  wise,  and  witty, 
Loved  alike  by  red  and  white, 

Sat  and  pondered  in  the  sunshine, 
Puffing  at  his  pipe  the  while, 

Where  the  brawling  Spuyten  Duyvil 
Foams  on  Mannahatta's  Isle. 

Arrow-swift,  a  birchen  vessel 
Shot  across  the  winding  creek; 

Up  the  bank  strode  Wetamoset, 
Sachem  of  the  Weckquaesgeek. 

"Hail!"  the  Dutchman  called  in  greeting. 

"Hail!"  the  crested  chief  replied, 
Gracious  as  a  king  in  exile. 

Pipe  to  pipe  and  side  by  side, 


Long  they  smoked  in  friendly  silence, 

Gazing  on  the  rapid  stream, 
Till  the  chieftain  softly  murmured, 

"Wetamoset  dreamed  a  dream." 

"Tell  thy  dream."    Then  quoth  the  sachem, 

Guileless  as  a  babe  new-born, 
"Wetamoset  dreamed  his  brother 

Gave  him  gun  and  powder-horn." 

Grave  and  silent,  Barendt  Cuyler 

Sought  his  cabin's  open  door, 
Filled  a  horn  with  large-grained  powder, 

Chose  a  musket  from  his  store, 

Gave  them  to  the  stolid  chieftain, 

Who,  with  courteous  ado, 
Bearing  off  the  light-won  plunder 

Launched  again  his  light  canoe. 


Wetamoset,  sage  and  war-chief, 
Stood  before  his  lodge  at  morn; 

Dark  behind  him  rose  his  woodland, 
Green  before  him  waved  his  corn. 


Mosholu  to  Spuyten  Duyvil 
Poured  a  rill  of  liquid  light; 

Up  the  slope  came  Barendt  Cuyler, 
Loved  alike  by  red  and  white. 

Full  and  friendly  was  his  welcome, 
Long  he  tarried  there,  to  speak 

Pleasant  words  of  kindly  counsel 
For  the  folk  of  Weckquaesgeek. 

Then,  beneath  his  eyebrow's  shadow 
Flashed  and  danced  a  mirthful  gleam; 

Spoke  the  trader:    "Wetamoset, 
Barendt  Cuyler  dreamed  a  dream." 

"Let  him  tell  it."    Then  the  trader: 
"Cuyler,  sleeping  by  the  lin, 

Dreamed  that  Wetamoset  gave  him 
All  of  Papparinamin!" 

Ruefully  the  stately  sachem 

Viewed  the  province  of  that  dream, 
All  the  pleasant  island-meadow 

'Twixt  the  marshland  and  the  stream. 
9  [115] 


Arm  in  air,  he  traced  the  boundary, 
Wooded  height  and  reedy  shore: 

"All  that  land  is  thine,  my  brother. 
Brother — let  us  dream  no  more!" 


[116] 


POSSESSION 

When  soft  I  lay  in  the  mossy  bed 

That  swells  to  the  foot  of  the  hemlock-tree ', 

In  the  pride  of  a  lover's  heart  I  said, 
"  The  sweety  green  woods  belong  to  me!" 

But  the  woodchuck  gray  and  the  brown-eyed  doe 
And  the  chipmunk,  rocked  on  the  hazel  stem, 

And  the  hare  and  the  deermouse  answered,  "No!"~ 
The  sweety  green  woods  belonged  to  them! 

Then  the  jack-in-the-pulpits,  friends  of  youth, 
Looked  archly  out  from  their  purpling  hoods 

With  an  elfin  laugh  as  they  told  the  truth: 
"We  all  belong  to  the  sweet,  green  woods!" 


WIZARD'S  WELL 

AT  the  extreme  northwestern  end  of  the  island 
**•  of  Manhattan,  bordered  by  the  broad  Hudson 
and  the  curving  Spuyten  Duyvil,  rises  the  promon 
tory  that  a  few  still  call  by  its  ancient  name  of 
Cock  Hill  or  Cox's  Hill,  an  untamed  region  of 
cliff,  ravine,  and  woodland.  Probably  from  this 
eminence  as  well  as  from  the  fortified  height  of 
Nipnichsen  on  the  Westchester  shore  across  the 
creek,  the  Indians  of  the  island  first  sounded  in 
European  ears  their  fierce  war-cry,  "Hoach,  hoach, 
ha,  ha,  hach,  woach!"  as  they  shot  their  arrows 
and  hurled  their  lances  at  Henry  Hudson's  vessel. 
This  is  a  place  brimming  over  with  magic — upper, 
lower,  and  middle  magic.  A  deep  glade,  known  as 
The  Clove,  leads  through  woods  to  a  little  patch 
of  meadow  backed  by  lofty  cliffs  and  opening  out 
upon  the  Spuyten  Duyvil.  Here  a  spring  of  the 
purest  water  flows  into  the  creek,  while  above  it 
grows  a  great  tulip-tree,  by  far  the  largest  tree 
on  the  island.  In  a  haunted  cave  still  to  be  seen 
[118] 


under  the  eastward  shadow  of  the  cliffs  there 
once  dwelt  an  ancient  Indian  medicine-man, 
hight  Moaqua.  A  kindly  old  wizard,  his  counsel 
was  much  sought  by  the  rosy  maidens  of  New 
Haarlem  and  New  Amsterdam  on  all  subjects 
from  matters  of  the  dairy  even  unto  matters  of 
the  heart;  and  before  he  vanished  from  mortal 
eyes  in  the  mysterious  manner  characteristic  of 
all  true  wizards,  he  imparted  some  of  his  mystic 
power  to  the  beautiful  spring  near  his  dwelling- 
place,  ever  after  known  as  the  Wizard's  Well. 


WIZARD'S    WELL 

"TRUDCHEN!    Trudchen!"  teased  the  maids, 
Laughed  the  lads  of  gallant  mien; 

"Leave  your  gloomy  forest  glades! 
Join  our  dance  upon  the  green!" 

Trudchen  never  turned  her  head; 

Light  as  wind-blown  thistledown 
Up  the  woodland  path  she  sped 

Far  above  the  step-roofed  town. 

"Trudchen!    Trudchen!"  sang  the  birds, 
Called  the  squirrels,  high  in  air; 

"Here  are  lilies,  white  as  curds, 
Velvet  moss  and  maidenhair. 

"Stay  with  us,  oh,  Sweet,  Sweet,  Sweet! 

Play  with  us,  and  fear  no  harm!" 
Onward  flew  her  constant  feet; 

Pause  or  word  had  broke  the  charm. 
[120] 


Light  as  wind-blown  thistle  down 
Up  the  woodland  path  she  sped. 


Soon  beside  the  pool  she  stood. 

Underneath  the  cliff-walled  hill 
Shadowed  by  the  ancient  wood 

Bordered  by  the  sparkling  kill; 

Bending  low,  with  coral  mouth 
Sipped  the  waters  of  the  well; 

Closed  her  eyes  and  faced  the  south; 
Wished  her  wish  and  spoke  the  spell: 

"Wizard  chief,  whose  haunted  cave 
Hides  where  mountain-laurels  cling; 

Red  Moaqua,  thou  that  gave 
Secret  gifts  to  bless  thy  spring, 

"Hear  the  words  my  grandam  taught! 

Hear  the  unforgotten  spell! 
Own  the  charm  thy  magic  wrought! 

Grant  the  wish  I  may  not  tell!" 

Steered  where  Spuyten  Duyvil  Kill 
Drinks  of  Hudson's  ample  flow, 

Driven  with  a  lusty  will 
Landward  rode  the  broad  bateau. 


Rich  in  peltries,  plain  and  pied, 
Spoil  of  beaver,  mink,  and  deer, 

Marten  fur  and  panther  hide, 
Gaily  came  the  pioneer. 

Home!  from  wilds  and  craggy  caves, 
Lairs  of  beasts  and  savage  men. 

"Trudchen!    Trudchen!"    lisped  the  waves; 
"We  have  brought  him  home  again!" 

Light  o'er  rock  and  fallen  bole 

Leaped  the  youth  in  glad  surprise; 

Soft  behind  the  girl  he  stole, 
Gently  kissed  the  hooded  eyes. 

Tulip-tree,  whose  mighty  shade 

Gives  the  well  a  deeper  hue, 
Tell  the  wish  that  Trudchen  made! 

Tell  me — did  that  wish  come  true? 


HALLOWE'EN  CHARM 

Fern  seed,  hemp  seed,  water  of  the  welly 

Bark  of  wizard  hazel-wand,  berry  of  the  bay, 

Let  the  fairy  gifts  of  you  mingle  with  the  spell. 
Guard  the  precious  life  and  soul  of  him  that's  far 
away! 

Oak  slip,  thorn  slip,  crystal  of  the  dew, 

Morsel  of  his  native  earth,  shoot  of  mountain  pine, 

Lend  his  arm  the  strength  of  you,  let  his  eye  be  true, 
Send  him  like  the  thunderbolt  to  break  thefoeman's 
line! 

Rose  leaf,  elm  leaf,  kernel  of  the  wheat, 

Airy  wtft  of  thistledown,  feather  of  the  wren. 
Bring  him  peace  and  happiness,  let  his  dream  be 

sweet, 

Take  my  secret  thought  to  him  and  call  him  home 
again! 


t«sl 


BORGER  JORIS'S  HAMMER 

YEARLY  in  the  history  of  New  Amsterdam 
*~*  Borger  Joris,  the  smith,  set  up  his  forge  on 
the  Strand  of  the  East  River  just  below  the  pali 
sades  of  Wall  Street,  where  Hanover  Square  is 
to-day.  Hearty,  patriotic,  and  pugnacious,  he 
was  the  last  man  to  stand  by  Governor  Stuyve- 
sant  in  his  defiance  of  the  English  fleet,  and  left 
the  city  in  disgust  after  the  surrender.  The 
scene  of  his  youthful  adventure,  narrated  in  the 
following  ballad,  the  Glen  of  the  Little  Gray  Men, 
is  part  of  the  glade  of  the  wooded  Clove  at 
Spuyten  Duyvil. 


BORGER  JORIS'S  HAMMER 

A  LANDHOLDING  freeman,  a  burgher  of  pith, 
Is  big  Borger  Joris,  New  Amsterdam's  smith. 
Just  south  of  the  Wall  where  the  ferryboat  swings, 
His  forge-fire  blazes;  his  sledge-hammer  rings 
On  plowshare,  on  coulter,  on  scythe,  ax,  and  bill. 
He  beats  the  white  iron  that  shapes  to  his  will. 
Thrice  hard  were  the  labors  of  forest  and  farm 
If  gone  were  the  skill  of  that  muscular  arm. 

The  coals  of  the  smithy  to  ashes  have  burned; 
The  daylight  is  ebbing;  in  leisure  well  earned 
The  smith's  at  the  doorway,  his  face  to  the  breeze 
That  blows  from  the  harbor.     Young  Peter  De 

Vries, 

His  curly-haired  'prentice,  as  eager  for  play 
And  -chary  of  work  as  a  boy  of  to-day — 
Who  lounges  full-length  on  the  turf  at  his  side, 
Heaves  up  the  great  hammer,  stout  Jons' s  pride, 
And  queries,  "Good  master,  now  tell  me,  I  pray: 
You've  wrought  on  the  anvil  for  many  a  day 


Scythe,  horseshoe,  and  anchor,  the  great  and  the 

small, 
But  who  forged  the  hammer  that  forges  them  all  ?" 

A  huge,  kindly  hand  like  the  paw  of  a  bear 
Is  lost  in  the  youth's  tumbled  masses  of  hair 
As  Joris  makes  answer:    "That  hammer  was  new 
When  I  was  a  worthless  apprentice  like  you. 
But  fill  me  a  pipe  and  a  tankard  of  ale, 
My  lad,  and  I'll  tell  you  its  wonderful  tale. 

"In  fall  when  the  maples  were  tinging  with  red, 
When  goldenrod  waved,  and  the  azure  overhead 
Was  mellow  with  haze,  like  a  slip-halter  colt 
I    scampered    free-footed    through    meadow    and 

holt, 

A  truant;  far  better  the  fowl-haunted  sedge 
I  loved  than  the  anvil,  the  bellows,  and  sledge. 

"Well  north,  on  the  sweep  of  the  eddying  kill 
That  limits  our  island,  arises  a  hill, 
A  deep-fissured  foreland  of  green-wooded  glades 
Where  chestnuts  are  gathered  by  Indian  maids 
And  cress  in  the  summer.     So  mild  is  the  air 
That  columbines  bloom  at  the  earliest  there, 
[128] 


And  bobolink  chirrups  his  mellowest  staves. 
Oh,  green  are  its  laurels  and  mossy  its  caves 
And    clear   are   its   wells — may   they   never   run 

dry!— 
You  rascal!  you  know  the  spot  better  than  I. 

"'Twas  there  that  I  loitered,  too  happy  for  words, 
To    chaff   with    the    squirrels,    to    chirp    to   the 

birds, 

To  wander,  high-souled  and  adventurous,  fain 
To  search  every  nook  of  my  lovely  domain; 
Then,  stretched  in  the  shade  of  a  great  tree  that 

grows 

Cliff-sheltered,  spring-watered,  I  lay  in  a  doze 
To  dream  out  my  day-dream;  when,  ringing  and 

clear, 

The  clink  of  a  forge-hammer  smote  on  my  ear, 
Sore   blow  to  my  conscience!     I  sprang  to  my 

feet 

And  marveled  and  trembled;  it  must  be  a  cheat! 
Yet,  no;  I  saw  clearly:    The  nave  of  the  glen 
Was  filled  with  an  army  of  little  gray  men 
Not  three  feet  in  stature!     They  swarmed  on  the 

crags, 

Their  tasseled  caps  waving  like  little  red  flags, 
[129] 


Their  buskined  feet  twinkling,  their  beards  flowing 

free, 
Their  eyes  in  a  riot  of  mischievous  glee 

"And    this    wore    a    jerkin     and    that    wore    a 

smock. 

Some  tended  a  blaze  in  a  cup-shapen  rock; 
Some  wheeled  the  black  ore  from  the  earth  where 

it  bides 

To  smelt  out  the  iron;   yet  others,  besides, 
Made  ready  wee  anvils,  or  heated  thick  wedges 
Of  metal   to  whiteness.     Then,   down  came  the 

sledges, 
And    up   flew  the   sparkles!     Oh,   wonders   they 

wrought 

In  well-tempered  iron,  and  swifter  than  thought. 
And  never  a  gnome  of  them  boggled  or  shirked, 
And  ever  the  Little  Men  sang  as  they  worked: 

"' Clang!  cling!  the  hammers  swing, 
The  flame-tongues  leap,  the  anvils  ring! 
Commingling  strength  and  craft  and  zeal 
In  welded  bar  and  tempered  steel 
We  frame  our  work  with  chanted  spell 
And  cool  it  in  the  Wizard's  Well. 


"Ho!  ho!  the  bellows  blow, 
The  coals  awake,  the  forges  glow! 
Then  let  cold  iron  drink  of  fire 
And  weld  the  sledge  that  shall  not  tire, 
The  ax  to  lay  the  forest  low, 
The  share  to  plow,  the  scythe  to  mow! 

'  'Hiss!  hiss!  the  waters  kiss 
The  finished  tools,  and  naught's  amiss. 
Now  stamp  on  each  the  elfin  brand 
That  none  shall  ever  fail  the  hand 
In  meadow,  forest,  forge,  or  mill, 
That  works  with  craft  and  might  and  will!' 

"A  gnome  with  a  frown  and  a  gnome  with  a  smile 
(Like  Warning  and  Blessing)  advanced;  from  the 

pile 

A  fire-new  hammer,  with  handle  complete, 
They  carried,  and  silently  placed  at  my  feet. 
I  gripped  on  the  gift  with  a  venturesome  fist 
And — puff! — all  the  pageantry  passed  like  a  mist! 

"So,  back  from  the  wildwood,  more  earnest  and 

strong, 

I  bore  to  the  smithy  the  hammer  and  song. 
10  [131] 


And  oft  as  I  labor  I  think  of  the  glen 
And  echo  the  chant  of  the  Little  Gray  Men. 
And  still  do  I  mark  with  their  magical  brand 
Each  scythe,  ax,  and  plowshare  that  comes  from 

my  hand 

To  bless  with  the  succor  of  elf-given  skill 
The  mortals  who  wield  them  with  power  and  will." 


[132 


A  LILT  IN  FALL 

The  brown  of  her  eyes  in  the  oaken  leaf. 
The  stir  of  her  sighs  in  the  mountain  fir, 

The  scent  of  her  breath  in  the  garnered  sheaf- 
Oh,  all  the  world  shall  sing  of  her! 


THE  CHANGE  OF  FLAGS 

TN  August,  1664,  while  there  was  yet  peace 
•*•  between  Holland  and  Great  Britain,  Colonel 
Nichols  sailed  up  the  Bay  and  demanded  the  sur 
render  of  New  Amsterdam.  The  demand  was 
backed  by  a  show  of  four  war-ships  with  a  hundred 
guns  and  a  full  complement  of  sailors,  a  body  of 
five  hundred  regular  troops,  and  a  considerable 
force  of  New-Englanders,  Long  Island  settlers,  and 
Indians.  The  fort  was  dilapidated,  was  commanded 
by  the  hills  to  the  northward,  and  Stuyvesant  had 
at  his  service  but  two  hundred  and  fifty  soldiers; 
yet  he  obstinately  refused  to  yield,  replying  in 
simple  faith  to  the  English  commander: 

As  touching  the  threats  in  your  conclusion,  we  have 
nothing  to  answer,  only  that  we  fear  nothing  but  what 
God  (who  is  just  as  merciful)  shall  lay  upon  us, 
all  things  being  in  His  gracious  disposal;  and  we  may 
as  well  be  preserved  by  Him  with  small  forces  as  by  a 
great  army;  which  makes  us  wish  you  all  happiness  and 
prosperity,  and  recommend  you  to  His  protection. 
My  lords, 

Your  thrice  humble  and  affectionate  servant  and  friend, 

P.  STUYVESANT. 


But  resistance  was  too  clearly  hopeless.  The 
clamors  of  the  people  and  the  entreaties  of  his  most 
trusted  counselors  at  last  won  from  the  governor 
a  reluctant  consent  to  the  articles  of  capitulation, 
and  the  Dominie  fairly  dragged  him  from  the 
bastions  of  the  fort,  protesting,  "I  had  much 
rather  be  carried  out  dead!" 

Yet  some  there  were,  headed  by  Borger  Joris, 
the  sturdy  blacksmith,  who,  refusing  to  accept 
English  rule,  withdrew  in  disgust  into  the  remote 
interior;  whence  their  stalwart  descendants  re 
turned  to  do  yeoman  service  against  their  tradi 
tional  foes  in  the  Revolutionary  War. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  pleasant  to  remember 
that  the  doughty  governor  spent  the  last  years  of 
his  long  life  in  the  city  that  he  had  ruled  most 
ably,  if  somewhat  imperiously,  mellowing  with  age 
and  loved  and  respected  alike  by  Dutch  and  Eng 
lish;  and  that  his  bones  still  rest  in  the  vault  of 
old  St.  Mark's  Church,  within  the  soil  of  his  cher 
ished  island. 


THE  CHANGE  OF  FLAGS 

A  FLURRIED  scud  of  sunlit  sails 

To  make  the  sheltered   port; 
A  flash  of  steel,  a  trumpet-peal 

Within  the  seaward  fort; 
The  grave-browed  burgomasters 

Have  sought  the  council-hall; 
Van  Dyck  has  raised  the  yeomanry 

To  man  the  northern  wall; 
The  Watch  is  up  with  ancient  arms 

That  foiled  the  steel  of  Spain, 
And  groups  of  anxious  burghers 

Are  clustered  on  The  Plain. 

And  here  is  Abram  Pietersen, 

And  hither  from  The  Strand 
Comes  stalwart  Borger  Joris, 

His  hammer  in  his  hand. 
The  vrouws  have  left  their  bread  to  burn, 

The  children  leave  their  play — 
"The  Englishmen!  the  Englishmen! 

Their  ships  are  in  the  Bay!" 


The  stubborn  Heer  Direktor 

Upon  the  rampart's  height 
Roused  up  his  keen-eyed  gunners, 

Their  linstocks  blazing  bright: 
"Now  make  your  weapons  ready, 
And  hold  your  courage  high! 
(I'll  hear  the  cannon's  music 

Once  more  before  I  die!) 
And  show  these  haughty  English 

That  ye  are  of  the  strain 
That  held  the  walls  of  Leyden 

Against  the  might  of  Spain!" 

A  hand  upon  his  shoulder 

And  Peter  turned  in  pride; 
The  Dominie,  his  comrade, 

Was  standing  at  his  side. 
"Old  friend,   and  trusty  soldier," 

That  man  of  God  began, 
"I  know  thy  heart  of  courage 

That  fears  not  any  man; 
Yet  save  thy  helpless  city! 

Provoke  not  ruthless  war! 
Alone,  surrounded,  friendless, 

Outnumbered  as  we  are. 
[I37l 


Our  sires  held  leagured  Leyden 

By  spear  and  carronade; 
But  faithful  Father  William 

Had  sworn  to  bear  them  aid. 
But  spare  a  helpless  people, 

Beset  on  every  hand, 
Divorced  by  leagues  of  ocean 

From  home  and  fatherland !" 

Then  paused  the  stern  Direktor, 

While  through  a  dimming  mist 
He  viewed  his  little  city 

He  clenched  his  iron  fist 
And  smote  the  useless  cannon. 

"Thou  speakest  truth!"  he  said; 
"I  yield!— but,  God  in  heaven! 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!" 

Then,  shoulder  touching  shoulder, 

With  drum  and  trumpet-peal, 
The  princely  flag  of  Orange 

Above  their  caps  of  steel, 
The  city's  stanch  defenders 

Marched  shoreward,  unashamed; 
And,  red  against  the  heavens 

The  flag  of  England  flamed. 
[138] 


An  angry  man  was  Joris 

Beside  the  blazing  forge 
To  see  above  the  rampart 

The  banner  of  St.  George! 
"So!  must  we  swear  allegiance 

And  bow  our  necks?"  quoth  he, 
"And  pay  our  tithes  to  puppets 

Of  kings  beyond  the  sea? 
What  boot  to  fashion  plowshares 

And  scythes,  but  hapless  toil! 
Oh,  had  I  beaten  broadswords 

Ye  might  have  held  your  soil! 

"Ho!  freemen!  leave  the  city 

For  dukes  to  make  or  mar! 
We'll  raise  our  rugged  hamlets 

Among  the  hills  afar; 
And  there  I'll  hammer  sabers 

For  better  men  to  use; 
We'll  breed  a  race  of  soldiers! 

A  race  with  hearts  and  thews! 
Our  children's  children's  children 

Perchance  may  live  to  fling 
Away  these  galling  shackles 

And  scorn  the  tyrant  king; 

[139] 


And  when  they've  struck  for  freedom, 
And  when  our  debt  is  paid, 

They'll  think  on  Borger  Joris 
That  wrought  the  battle-blade!" 


140] 


Colonial 
Period 


POLLY  CORTELYOU 

HTHE  little  English  fleet  that  in  August,  1664, 
•*•  sailed  into  the  harbor  with  the  forces  under 
Col.  Richard  Nichols,  brought  in  its  wake,  besides 
a  change  in  government,  the  beginnings  of  many 
other  changes,  social  as  well  as  political.  There 
was,  it  is  true,  a  brief  reversal  to  the  old  order 
when  a  Dutch  fleet  retook  the  city  from  the  in 
vaders.  But  by  a  treaty  that  ended  an  indecisive 
war,  New  Amsterdam  became  permanently  New 
York;  old  Dutch  customs  slowly  yielded  to  livelier 
English  fashions;  the  English  element  grew  pre 
ponderant  with  the  rapid  increase  of  population, 
and  the  little  town  became  more  and  more  a  city. 
But  for  many  years  New  York  presented  a  strange 
contrast  of  nationalities  and  an  often  comical 
blending  of  city  and  country  scenes  and  manners. 
The  following  little  social  incident  occurred  in  the 
early  years  of  the  new  regime. 


[143] 


POLLY  CORTELYOU 

PRETTY  Polly  Cortelyou, 
Mistress  of  the  dairy, 
Born  a  dainty  little  shrew, 
Sprightly  and  contrary, 


"Sweet    of   manner,    neat    in 

dress, 

Buxom  little  charmer; 
Who  would   have   such  love 
liness 
Wasted  on  a  farmer!" 


Built  when  only  moor  and  wood 
Edged  the  rustic  byway, 

Now  her  father's  bouwerie  stood 
Fronting  on  the  highway 

Where,  in  sil-ken  revelry, 

Plumes  and  powdered  tresses, 

Passed  Manhattan's  chivalry, 
Swept  their  hearts'  princesses. 


Rosy  Polly  Cortelyou 
Kept  the  dasher  turning, 

Panting  as  the  butter  grew 
Stiffer  with  her  churning; 

Frowning  still  on  Harry  Gray, 
Merry  spark  of  fashion, 

Sipping  buttermilk  and  whey 
Just  to  cool  his  passion. 


"Go!"  said  she,  "thou  face  of  brass; 

Save  thy  coat  of  scarlet! 
How  should  e'er  a  farmer  lass 

Wed  a  lazy  varlet!" 

"Cruel  Polly!  leave  the  churn! 

Think  me  not  a  rake,  dear. 
Sure,"  the  gallant  said,  "I'd  turn 

Shepherd  for  your  sake,  dear. 

"Nay,  you  doubt  me?     Can  you  ask 

Proof  I  love  you  madly? 
Set  me  any  servile  task; 

Faith,  I'll  do  it  gladly." 
[  145  1 


"Wilt  thou  then,"  the  maiden  spoke, 

"Bear,  till  I  enlarge  thee, 
Milking-pails  and  dairy  yoke 

Wheresoever  I  charge  thee?" 

"Sweet,  Pd  bear  them,"  vowed  the  youth, 

"Just  to  do  thy  pleasure, 
Clear  to  Spain! — and  back,  forsooth, 

Heaping  full  of  treasure." 

Round  his  neck  the  dimpling  miss 
Bound  the  yoke,  to  tame  him. 

(If  he  tried  to  snatch  a  kiss, 
Truly,  do  you  blame  him?) 

Laughing  at  his  helpless  plight, 

Led  him  from  the  dairy 
(So  a  Jack-o'-lantern  sprite, 

So  an  antic  fairy, 

Threading  bog  or  muddy  shore, 

Draws  a  luckless  mortal), 
Through  the  house,  toward  the  door, 

Opened  wide  the  portal. 


Then,  that  wicked  little  cheat, 
Laughing  still,  to  blind  him, 

Thrust  him  headlong  to  the  street, 
Snapped  the  lock  behind  him. 

All  Manhattan's  brave  array 
Stopped  and  stared  in  wonder. 

All  Manhattan's  gallants  gay 
Split  their  sides  asunder. 

There  he  stood  in  silken  coat, 

Rapier  silver-hiked, 
Snowy  scarf  about  his  throat, 

Beaver  bravely  tilted, 

Harry  Gray,  the  ballroom's  pride, 
Yoke  across  his  shoulders, 

Brimming  pails  on  either  side, 
Joy  of  all  beholders. 

Heartless  Polly  shrieked  with  mirth, 
Screened  behind  the  casement. 

Open!  open!  kindly  earth! 
Cover  his  abasement! 

11  [147] 


Each  of  twenty  youths,  they  say, 

Solemn  as  a  major, 
Took  his  oath  that  Harry  Gray 

Did  it  on  a  wager. 

Eight-and-forty  ladies  fair 

(Can  a  man  deceive  them?) 
Dropped  their  eyes  and  heard  them  swear — 

Didn't  quite  believe  them. 

Gallants,  heed!     'Twere  well  ye  should, 

Be  they  ne'er  so  loving, 
Chain  your  hearts;  to  field  and  wood 

Send  them  not  a-roving. 

Woman-craft  in  subtle  toys 

All  your  wit  surpasses. 
Let  the  canny  country  boys 

Woo  the  farmer  lasses! 


CITY  HALL  PARK 

Erg  Cabot's  prow  was  westward  turned, 

Before  old  Hudson  came, 
Upon  this  island  acre  burned 

The  Red  Man's  council  flame. 

Then  here  the  settler's  cattle  grazed 

Along  the  bowered  track; 
And  here  his  bell-mouthed  musket  blazed 

And  drove  the  savage  back. 

But  yonder  rose  the  gallows-tree 

Where,  calm  and  fearless-eyed, 
Our  first  sad  pledge  to  Liberty, 

Great-hearted  Leisler  died. 

And  hither  flocked  from  shops  and  farms, 
When  Freedom's  summons  flew, 

Those  large-boned,  sun-browned  men-at-arms 
That  wore  the  buff  and  blue. 

[149] 


Oh,  build  your  walls,  for  build  you  will, 

On  earth  less  dearly  known; 
Leave  this  one  spot  unburdened  still 

With  tyrant  steel  and  stone! — 

A  scroll  whereon  brave  youth  shall  trace 
Brave  deeds  of  days  gone  by, 

A  shrine,  a  little,  hallowed  space 
Unroofed  beneath  the  sky. 


[150 


THE  STORM  SHIP 

TN  early  English  colonial  times,  especially  in  Col. 
*  Benjamin  Fletcher's  administration  from  1692 
to  1698,  the  city  of  New  York  was  a  veritable 
paradise  of  pirates,  who  carried  thither  for  sale 
the  spoil  of  the  Indian  seas  and  swaggered  boldly 
in  the  streets,  having,  it  is  pretty  well  established, 
purchased  protection,  if  not  from  the  governor 
himself,  at  least  from  his  trusted  advisers.  Nat 
urally  the  outfitting  of  buccaneering  vessels  and 
the  marketing  of  the  treasure  that  they  brought 
into  port  were  wonderfully  good  for  business, 
wherefore  great  was  the  righteous  indignation  of 
the  honorable  merchants  of  the  city  when  Fletch 
er's  successor,  the  inflexible  Earl  of  Bellomont, 
presumed  to  interfere  with  the  profitable  traffic 
and  strove  to  bring  the  pirates  to  justice. 

Everybody  has  heard  of  Capt.  William  Kidd, 
once  a  respectable  householder  of  Liberty  Street; 
how,  in  1696,  empowered  with  King  William's 
commission,  he  sailed  in  the  Adventure  galley  to 


prey  upon  the  pirates  of  the  Indian  Ocean;  how 
he  turned  pirate  himself,  and  how  punishment 
overtook  him.  It  is  known  that  before  Kidd  sur 
rendered  himself  to  justice  he  sailed  up  Long  Island 
Sound  as  far  as  Oyster  Bay  and  left  part  of  his 
booty  at  Gardiner's  Island,  whence  it  was  recovered 
by  the  government;  but  all  wise  men  of  the  sea 
agree  that  the  fate  of  his  piratical  vessel  or  vessels 
and  the  hidi'ng-places  of  his  fabulous  treasures 
remain  dark  and  delightful  mysteries. 

Vague  stories  of  the  terrible  captain  still  echo 
among  the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson,  where  Cald- 
well's  Landing  bears  the  alternative  name  of 
"Kidd's  Point,"  and  where  "Kidd's  Plug  Cliff" 
is  still  shown  as  a  repository  of  his  golden  hoard; 
moreover,  there  is  a  well-attested  tradition  that 
the  charred  hulk  of  his  hapless  ship  still  lies  be 
neath  the  waters  of  the  river  at  the  foot  of  Dunder- 
berg. 


152] 


THE  STORM  SHIP 

HER  sails  are  wove  of  the  fogs  that  flee; 

Her  masts  are  wraiths  of  the  Baltic  firs; 
The  phosphor-glow  of  a  sultry  sea 

Is  the  only  foam  that  her  forefoot  stirs. 

Her  lanterns  gleam  with  the  wan  corpse-light, 
The  clouds  roll  black  where  her  helmsman  steers; 

The  silent  shapes  on  her  main-deck's  height 
Are  of  Hudson  old  and  his  mutineers. 

She  comes  from  the  capes  of  Labrador; 

Through  the  death-white  fleet  of  the  North  she 

glides, 
And  the  fisher-craft  of  the  mist-hung  shore 

Keep  close  in  port  when  the  Storm  Ship  rides. 

[153] 


Full-crammed  with  Eastern  silk  and  gold — 

A  guilty  treasure,  won  amid 
Red  wrack  and  slaughter — homeward  rolled 

The  pirate  craft  of  Captain  Kidd. 

And,  "Westward,  ho!"  the  chorus  rang; 

"Our  hatches  brim  with  precious  store. 
Let  beggars  fight  and  cowards  hang! 

But  we  shall  live  like  lords,  ashore." 

"A  sail  to  windward;  ho!  a  sail!" 
The  lookout  from  the  foretop  cried. 

The  captain  heard  that  boding  hail; 
He  gripped  the  cutlass  at  his  side. 

"She  comes  in  chase — no  flag  displayed; 

Belike  a  war-ship  of  the  Crown — 
Run  out  the  starboard  carronade 

And  send  her  mainmast  toppling  down!" 

The  gunner  aimed — and  well  he  could; 

The  linstock  blazed,  the  chain-shot  flew; 
It  brought  no  crash  of  rending  wood, 

Yet  cut  the  mainmast  through  and  through. 

[154] 


It  cut  the  mast  before  their  eyes, 

Yet  mast  and  spars  stood  stiff  and  strong; 
And  underneath  the  darkening  skies 

That  drumly  vessel  bowled  along, 

No  murmur  in  her  bellied  clouds 
Of  canvas,  gray  without  a  fleck; 

The  breeze  was  voiceless  in  her  shrouds, 
The  crew  stood  silent  on  her  deck; 

And,  like  a  red-hot  cannon-ball, 

The  sullen  sun  in  skies  of  lead 
Revealed,  beneath  a  murky  pall, 

The  livid  faces  of  the  dead! 

Round  spun  the  wheel!    In  panic,  blind 
To  all  but  that  dread  shape  abeam, 

They  fled,  a  rising  gale  behind, 

Up  Hudson's  glamour-haunted  stream. 

Proud  Mannahatta's  island  key 
Was  left  astern.     The  sun  went  down. 

They  swept  the  shores  of  Tappan  Zee 
Beneath  the  heights  of  Tarrytown. 


They  drove  across  the  sea-broad  sweep 
That  laps  the  hills  of  Haverstraw 

To  Dunderberg's  enchanted  steep 
Whose  goblins  keep  the  vale  in  awe. 

Around  the  frowning  mountain  boiled 
That  swirling  ebb,  the  Devil's  Race; 

In  vain  the  tide-held  pirate  toiled! 
While  onward  drove  the  wraith  in  chase. 


New  horror  froze  the  cutthroat  band; 

For,  as  the  phantom  closer  came, 
Her  ghostly  captain  waved  his  hand — 

And  Dunderberg  was  ringed  with  flame! 

Red  levin  smote  the  buccaneer; 

Her  kindled  rigging  lit  the  night; 
And  helter-skelter,  mad  with  fear, 

The  pirates  plunged  in  headlong  flight. 

The  crackling  flame-tongues  searched  the  hold; 

A  rending  crash,  a  wild  turmoil 
Of  smoke  and  foam — and  Hudson  rolled 

Above  a  wealth  of  blood-won  spoil. 

And  he  that  'scaped  the  flame  and  wave 
Was  spared  to  sound  the  depths  of  shame; 

For  him  a  dungeon's  living  grave, 
A  felon's  death,  a  blackened  name. 


Her  sails  are  wove  of  the  fogs  that  flee; 

Her  masts  are  wraiths  of  the  Baltic  firs; 
The  phosphor-glow  of  a  sultry  sea 

Is  the  only  foam  that  her  forefoot  stirs. 

[157] 


When  she  lays  her  head  to  the  whooping  gale 
And  the  corpse-light  flares  on  her  lofty  sides, 

Oh,  it's  run  for  port  with  a  thrice-reefed  sail! 
For  the  waves  wax  rich  where  the  Storm  Ship 
rides. 


OFF  FIRE  ISLAND 

With  snapping  flag  against  the  gray, 
With  plunging  bows  awash  with  spray, 
Our  little  sloop  is  running  free 
Before  the  Dawn  awakes  the  sea. 

The  west  wind  strains  the  bellied  sail; 
The  foams  above  the  low  lee-rail; 
The  hand-line  stings;  in  frenzied  strife 
The  flashing  bluefish  leaps— for  life! 


[159] 


THE  THANK-OFFERING 

T  TNDER  the  rule  of  the  English  governors,  im- 
^-^  migration  was  encouraged  and  new  farming 
communities  gathered  along  the  quiet  reaches  of 
the  Hudson.  The  farms  flourished  and  the 
farmers  prospered;  and  sometimes,  becoming  too 
proud  in  their  prosperity,  they  were  properly 
rebuked  by  such  wandering  men  of  God  as 
Overbeck,  the  Forest  Preacher,  from  the  region  of 
the  Tappan  Zee. 


160] 


THE  THANK-OFFERING 

OVERBECK,  the  Forest  Preacher, 

Bent  his  silvered  head: 
"Harvest  yields  for  every  creature 

Food  in  store,"  he  said. 

"Ye  that  know  your  Lord  is  living, 

Witnessing  His  grace, 
Heap  your  tithes  of  all  His  giving 

Round  His  altar-place." 

Ere  November  breezes  blowing 

Bared  the  silver  birch, 
Harvest-plenty  overflowing 

Filled  the  little  church. 

[161] 


Farmer-folk  in  pleasant  parley 
Praised  the  crops  they'd  reared — 

Dirck  Van  Brunt  his  sheaves  of  barley 
Yellow  as  his  beard, 

Peter  Smit  his  orchard's  bounty; 

Boastful  Gert  Von  Horn 
Swore  no  croft  in  all  the  county 

Equaled  his  for  corn. 

Housewives  showed  in  oaken  caskets 

Butter  firm  and  good. 
Children  brought  in  birchen  baskets 

Nuts  of  copse  and  wood. 

All  was  set  before  the  altar, 

When  across  the  moor 
Crept  the  widow,  Gretel  Baiter, 

Wrinkled,  bent,  and  poor. 

"She!  that  earns  with  all  her  labors 

Scant  enough  to  live, 
Helped  and  clothed  by  kindly  neighbors — 

What  hath  she  to  give?" 
[162] 


12 


"Come,  behold  the  widow's  treasure !" 

All  the  world  drew  near. 
Just  a  little  earthen  measure 

Filled  with  water  clear. 

Just  an  earthen  cruse,  upon  it 

Writ  in  letters  plain — 
Yea*,  and  all  her  world  might  con  it — 

"God  be  thanked  for  rain." 

Overbeck,  the  Forest  Preacher, 

Raised  his  noble  head: 
"She,  not  I,  shall  be  your  teacher, 

Oh,  my  friends,"  he  said. 

"What  are  treasures  proudly  tendered? 

Dross  before  His  throne! 
Humble  offerings,  humbly  rendered, 

Loveth  God,  alone." 


163] 


SAXON  HARVEST  HEALTH 

Here's  to  the  plow  that  furrowed, 
Here's  to  the  hand  that  sowed, 

Here's  to  the  rake  that  harrowed, 
Here's  to  the  arm  that  mowed! 

Blest  with  the  choice  of  blessings 
Are  orchard  and  hill  and  plain — 

The  blessing  of  Grapes  and  Apples, 
The  blessing  of  Sheaves  of  Grain. 


TUBBY  HOOK 

ABOUT  two-thirds  of  a  mile  below  Spuyten 
Duyvil,  at  the  old  settlement  of  Inwood  from 
where  the  Fort  Lee  ferry  carries  picnic-parties 
across  the  Hudson  to  the  Palisades,  there  is  a 
rock-edged  cape  which,  before  filling-in  operations 
changed  its  rounded  outline,  by  its  appearance 
alone  justified  its  old  Dutch  name  of  "Tobbe 
Hoeck" — the  Cape  of  the  Tub — now  rendered 
"Tubby  Hook." 

After  much  inquiry  I  finally  learned  from  the 
bearded  lips  of  an  old  settler  the  true  explanation 
of  this  promising  name.  And  as  the  memory  of 
the  narrator  extends  back  to  the  time  "when  Canal 
Street  was  'way  down  to  the  Battery/7  his  authority 
on  legendary  matters  is  plainly  indisputable. 


165] 


TUBBY  HOOK 


MEVROUW  VON  WEBER  was  brisk  though  fat; 
She  loved  her  neighbor,  she  loved  her  cat, 
She  loved  her  husband;  but,  here's  the  rub — 
Beyond  all  conscience  she  loved  her  tub! 
She  rubbed  and  scrubbed  with  strange  delight, 
She  scrubbed  and  rubbed  from  morn  till  night; 

Her  earthly  hope 

Was  placed  in  soap; 

Her  walls  and  chimneypiece  fairly  shone, 
Her  skirts  were  starched  so  they  stood  alone! 
Fl661 


By  mop  and  duster  and  broom  she  swore. 

She  scrubbed  the  floor 

Until  she  wore 

The  oak  in  channels  from  door  to  door. 
The  flood  she  reveled  in  never  ebbed, 

And  hill  to  dale 

Retold  the  tale 
That  both  her  hands  and  her  feet  were  webbed! 

Now  Hans,  her  husband,  was  mild  and  meek; 
He  let  her  scrub  through  the  livelong  week; 
But  when  the  sud  of  her  washtub  churned 
On  Easter  Sunday! — the  earthworm  turned. 

"Nay,  vrouw,"  quoth  he, 

"Let  labor  be! 

This  day  when  all  of  the  world's  at  feast 
Thou'lt  wash  no  more — in  my  house,  at  least!'* 
She  stopped  her  toil  at  her  lord's  command. 

Without  a  sound 

She  flaunted  round 

And  took  her  tub  to  the  river  strand, 
Where  Hans,  who  followed  in  dark  dismay, 

Could  hear  her  vow, 

His  angry  vrouw, 

"I'll  wash  and  wash  till  the  Judgment  Day!" 
[167] 


Along  a  river  that  leaped  in  flame 
The  Sailing  Witches  of  Salem  came. 
(They  ride  the  waters,  that  evil  crew, 
Wherever  the  Duyvil  hath  work  to  do.) 
And  every  witch  in  a  washtub  sat, 
And  every  witch  had  a  coal-black  cat 
That  steered  the  course  with  a  supple  tail, 

A  shift  for  sail, 

A  shell  to  bale, 

A  thread  to  reef  when  the  wind  blew  strong, 
A  broom  to  whurry  the  bark  along. 


They  hailed  the  vrouw  on  her  spit  of  sand; 
She  waved  them  back  with  a  soapy  hand. 
Cried  one  whose  face  was  a  Chinese  mask, 
"This  dame  is  sworn  to  a  goodly  task! 
[168] 


Come,  friends  that  ride  on  the  crested  swell, 
We'll  charm  the  spot  with  a  lasting  spell 

That  here  she'll  stay 

And  scour  away, 

And  never  rest  till  the  Judgment  Day!" 
With  cries  to  Satan  and  Beelzebub 
They  shaped  the  cape  like  an  upturned  tub! — 
Beneath  its  dome  and  the  shifting  sands 
That  busy  vrouw  at  her  washtub  stands, 

While  day  and  night 

She  bends  her  might 
To  scrub  the  fur  of  a  black  cat  white! 

When  down  the  river  the  norther  scuds 
The  waves  are  flecked  with  the  rising  suds. 
When  clouds  roll  black  as  a  Dutchman's  hat 
You'll  hear  the  wail  of  the  injured  cat! 

So  heed  her  fall, 

Good  housewives  all, 

And  take  this  truth  from  a  ragged  song — 
That  super-cleanliness  may  go  wrong! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  BLAZES 

(A  Modern  Legend   of   Spuyten  Duyvif) 

Where  Spuyten  DuyviFs  waves  environ 
Manhattan  s  stern  and  rock-bound  shore 

With  fume  and  flame  of  molten  iron 
A  foundry9 s  chimneys  blaze  and  roar. 

Upon  a  northward  promontory 

The  "House  of  Blazes"  stands  in  pride — 
A  tavern  famed  in  local  story, 

Where  grimy  furnace-men  abide. 

Now,  one  of  these,  in  proud  elation. 
Despatched  a  letter  oer  the  foam. 

And  bitter  grief  and  consternation 

That  missive  caused  in  Patrick's  home! 

"Och!    Mother  av  the  Saints  in  glory!" 

The  wail  arose  as  Nora  read: 
"Sure,  Pathrick's  gone  to  purgathory! 

He  niver  wrote  that  he  was  dead! 


"'Me  job  is  ahl  I  culd  desire,' 

Sez  he,  'though  somewhat  warrm  I  feel 
Wid  heapin    coal  to  feed  the  fire 

An1  makin    pies  av  red-hot  steel. 

" '  The  boss  is  jist  the  kind  that  plates. 
And  ahl  me  mates  is  mighty  civil. 

I'm  dwellin*  in  the  House  av  Blazes, 
And  right  forninst  the  Spittin    DivW" 


ZENGER  THE  PRINTER 

TN  1735,  under  the  Administration  of  Gov.  Will- 
iam  Cosby,  John  Peter  Zenger,  publisher  of 
The  New  York  Weekly  Journal,  was  prosecuted 
for  libel  mainly  because  of  a  bitter  satirical  review 
of  Cosby's  corrupt  government  that  had  appeared 
in  his  paper.  The  proceedings  were  conducted 
with  the  greatest  unfairness.  Zenger's  attorneys 
were  expelled  from  the  bar.  But  on  the  day  of  the 
trial  Andrew  Hamilton,  an  old  and  eminent  law 
yer  from  Philadelphia,  undertook  the  defense. 
"Shall  not  the  oppressed  have  even  the  right  to 
complain?"  he  demanded.  "Shall  the  press  be 


silenced  that  evil  governors  may  have  their 
way?" 

Although  the  chief  justice  charged  the  jury  to 
convict  on  the  ground  that  an  attack  on  a  gov 
erning  official  was  libelous  whether  the  statements 
made  therein  were  true  or  false,  the  jury  boldly 
disregarded  the  charge  and  declared  the  defendant 
"Not  guilty"  amid  the  cheers  of  the  audience. 

This  was  the  first  successful  assertion  of  the 
liberty  of  the  press  at  a  time  when  in  the  cities  of 
Europe  and  America  thought  and  speech  were 
severely  restricted. 


ZENGER  THE  PRINTER 

ZENGER  the  Printer,  through  storm  and  stress, 
Deaf  to  a  sycophant  Council's  rage, 

Doggedly  toiled  at  his  wooden  press 
Building  his  monument,  page  by  page, 

Telling  of  tyranny's  foul  disgrace, 
Rousing  the  spirit  that  never  dies, 

Shouting  for  right  in  the  market-place, 
Speaking  the  truth  in  a  world  of  lies! 

Vexing  the  governor's  pampered  fold, 
Scourging  with  irony's  stinging  whip, 

Showing  how  justice  was  bought  and  sold; 
Phrasing  the  wrath  of  the  curling  lip. 

Wrongfully  haled  through  the  public  street, 
Wrathfully  flung  on  the  dungeon  floor, 

Grimly  he  published  that  galling  sheet 

Out  "through  the  hole  in  the  prison  door." 

[1/4] 


Vain  were  the  wiles  of  a  servile  judge 
Twisting  to  evil  the  wholesome  laws!  . 

Vain  was  the  governor's  heavy  grudge! 
Gallant  old  Hamilton  pled  his  cause: 

"Men  of  Manhattan!  your  fateful  word 
Curses  or  blesses  the  coming  time! 

Say! — shall  the  downtrodden  die  unheard? 
What  of  your  freedom  if  Truth  be  crime!' 

Nobly  the  men  of  a  free-born  strain 
Answered  the  note  of  that  noble  plea, 

Cleaving  the  truth-teller's  futile  chain — 
Freeing  the  weapon  that  made  them  free! 


Zenger  the  Printer — his  work  is  done; 

Soft  be  his  slumber.     Through  storm  and  stress 
Guard  we  the  prize  of  the  fight  he  won — 

Bulwark  of  Freedom,  a  fearless  press! 


175] 


THE  RIVER 

What  may  the  gray  gull  know 

Ere  the  rolling  sun  is  high 
Of  the  wakened  world  below 

His  road  in  the  winnowed  sky? 

The  song  of  the  crowded  streets. 
The  throng  of  the  wharf  and  quay, 

The  tryst  of  ships  where  the  river  meets 
The  burst  of  the  gladdened  sea. 

Where  the  smoke-ivreaths  lift  and  melt. 
Where  the  mainsail  flaps  and  fills, 

And  Hudson  heaves  like  a  wampum  belt 
On  the  breast  of  the  strong,  red  hills. 

What  may  the  nighthawk  view 

As  the  great  wings  cleave  their  way 

Through  the  gemmed  arc  s  deeper  blue 
To  the  haunt  of  his  midnight  prey? 


The  fairy  lamps  that  show 

On  masthead,  shrouds,  and  spars; 
The  million  lights  of  the  town  that  glow 
Like  a  bank  of  welded  stars; 

And  the  flare  of  red  abaft, 

And  the  flash  of  the  green  abeam, 

And  the  glow-worm  glare  of  the  dragon  craft 
That  glide  on  the  sable  stream. 


[177] 


BUTTERMILK  CHANNEL 

"DUTTERMILK  CHANNEL"  is  the  name 
*~*  still  attached  to  the  strait  between  Red 
Hook  on  the  Brooklyn  shore  and  Governor's 
Island.  Some  hold  that  the  passage  was  so  called 
because  of  the  buttermilk  which,  with  other  prod 
uce,  the  country  wives  were  wont  to  bring  across 
it  in  fleets  of  market-boats  on  their  way  to  New 
York.  Other  legends,  however,  indicate  that  the 
name  was  sometimes  sportively  applied  to  the 


broader  passage  of  the  East  River,  and  there  is  a 
tale  to  the  effect  that  it  commemorates  the  re 
sourcefulness  of  the  adventurous  daughter  of  a 
Long  Island  farmer  when  overtaken  by  a  sudden 
storm  that  raised  a  great  commotion  in  the  nar 
row  channel. 
13 


[179] 


BUTTERMILK  CHANNEL 

"PRAY  tarry,  Nancy  Blossom, 

With  your  freight  of  corn-in-silk 
And  your  chickens  and  your  cheeses 

And  your  cans  of  buttermilk! 
Wait  the  morning  with  your  gossip 

In  her  cabin  on  the  strand; 
Bid  that  lazy  darky  Mingo 

Draw  the  market-boat  to  land; 
For  the  river  channel's  brawling, 

And  the  windy  heavens  frown, 
And  you'll  never  reach  Manhattan 

'Fore  the  sun  goes  down!" 

But  Nancy  had  her  errand 

And  the  market  wouldn't  wait, 
So  she  oared  the  heavy  wherry 

Through  the  currents  of  the  strait. 
Then  the  tempest  broke  above  her! 

And  the  chickens  squawked  in  fright; 
And  the  little  darky  Mingo 

Fairly  turned  from  black  to  white 
[180! 


As  he  chattered,  "Laws-a-massy! 

Wuz  dis  nigger  bawn  to  drown? 
Oh,  we'll  nebber  reach  Manhattan 

'Fore  de  sun  goes  down!" 

Then  she  cuffed  that  little  darky 

Till  she  taught  him  to  behave; 
And  they  poured  a  can  of  buttermilk 

Upon  the  saucy  wave; 
And  the  roughness  of  the  channel 

Grew  as  smooth  as  watered  silk, 
As  the  angry  tide  was  tempered 

By  the  mildness  of  the  milk. 
So  they  made  the  land  in  safety 

'Mid  the  cheers  of  half  the  town 
In  the  harbor  of  Manhattan 

'Fore  the  sun  went  down. 

When  the  bleak  nor'easter  blusters, 

When  the  summer  tempests  roar 
And  their  host  of  prankish  goblins 

Bend  the  masts  along  the  shore, 
When  the  wind-lashed  wave  is  scurried 

Down  the  river  to  the  Bay, 
How  the  surges  of  the  channel 

Froth  and  foam  with  milk  and  whey, 
[181] 


All  to  honor  Nancy  Blossom 
Who  achieved  this  high  renown 

When  she  crossed  to  old  Manhattan 
Tore  the  sun  went  down! 


182 


A  CITY  GARDEN 

Sun-warmed,  where  Hudson  meets  the  sea, 
My  motley-blossomed  croft  is  sown — 

A  desert  inn  that  cheers  the  bee 
Astray  amid  our  wastes  of  stone — 

Where  pansies  raise  their  velvet  headsy 
Where  lilies  nod  to  hollyhocks 

Across  the  sweet-alyssum  beds; 
And  tiger-bells  and  four-o' clocks, 

Right  neighborly,  together  grow — 

The  wild  and  tame,  the  red  and  white; 

And  here  I  spend  the  hour  of  glow 

Ere  moths  and  bats  bring  in  the  night. 

And  here  my  chair's  a  ducal  throne; 

I  rule  a  fief  in  Fairyland, 
Though  scarce  to  any  serf  is  known 

My  puissant,  scepter-wielding  hand. 


Unchecked,  his  subterrene  abode 

That  Earth-gnome  Worm  may  dig  with  zeal, 
Nor  shall  I  balk  the  Ogre  Toad 

Who  marks  him  for  a  horrid  meal! 

Those  gay  Zingaras  of  the  breeze, 

The  air-delighting  Butterflies, 
Have  come  to  woo  my  trellised  peas 

That  mock  so  well  their  forms  and  dyes. 

I  know  yon  dart  of  emerald  light 

That  shakes  the  arbor  s  dewy  shower! 

The  Humming-bird,  bold  errant  knight, 
Is  tilting  with  the  trumpet-flower! 

Unthanked,  unknown,  aloof,  benign, 
By  wayward  whim  alone  controlled, 

Like  him  that  ruled  in  ease  divine 
The  careless,  lawless  Age  of  Gold, 

So  do  I  hold  Saturnian  reign 

Till  one  transcending  day,  I  ween, 

Shall  welcome  to  her  leal  domain 
My  Suzeraine — the  Faery  Queen. 


184 


BOWLING  GREEN 

r]PHE  little  half-acre  park  on  lower  Broadway 
•*•  just  north  of  the  Custom-House  has  preserved 
its  identity  through  many  vicissitudes.  First  an 
Indian  camping-site  and  council-place,  then  part  of 
a  parade-ground,  next  a  bowling-green,  and  finally, 
though  under  widely  varied  auspices,  a  park  for 
the  privileged  few  or  the  general  public,  it  has 
been  intimately  connected  with  many  of  the  most 
significant  events  of  the  city's  history. 

Known  in  the  earliest  days  as  the  "plain  before 
the  fort"  and  even  then  largely  devoted  to  recrea 
tion,  it  was  in  the  year  of  Washington's  birth 
leased  for  the  consideration  of  "one  peppercorn  per 
annum"  to  three  gentlemen  "in  order  to  make  a 
Bowling  Green  there."  It  was  thus  the  first  officially 
authorized  park  in  the  city.  In  1772  it  is  described 
in  the  diary  of  John  Adams  as  "A  beautiful  ellipsis 
of  land,  railed  in  with  solid  iron,  in  the  center 
of  which  is  a  statue  of  his  majesty  on  horseback, 
yery  large,  of  solid  lead  gilded  with  gold,  standing 


on  a  pedestal  of  marble,  very  high."  It  was  this 
leaden  statue  that  a  few  years  later  was  pulled 
down  by  his  Majesty's  rebellious  subjects  and  run 
into  bullets  dedicated  to  the  discomfiture  of  his 
Majesty's  troops.  The  railing  that  still  surrounds 
the  green  is  said  to  be  the  original  fence  mentioned 
by  Adams;  but  tradition  has  it  that  the  iron  up 
rights  were  formerly  surmounted  with  decorative 
crowns  which  were  broken  off  by  the  mob  that  de 
throned  the  leaden  statue  of  his  Majesty  King 
George  III. 


186] 


BOWLING  GREEN 

A  PLEASANT  breadth  of  open  space 
In  wastes  of  stone,  a  breathing-place 
For  dusty  toil,  though  ages  roll 
Unchanged  it  spreads  a  verdant  scroll 
Whereon  is  writ,  for  knowing  eyes, 
The  legend  of  a  city's  rise. 
Rule  prince  or  people,  king  or  queen, 
Still  Bowling  Green  is  Bowling  Green. 

For  here,  before  the  Dutchman  came, 
The  Red  Man  lit  his  council-flame 
To  plan  the  hunt  or  ambuscade; 
And  here  his  dark-eyed  children  played. 
Where  now  De  Peyster's  image  stands 
The  simple  sachems  gave  their  lands 
For  trinkets — easy  victims  fit 
For  such  as  crafty  Minuit. 

Next  rose  Kryn  Frederyck's  bastioned  fort. 
Before  the  northward  sally-port 
The  soldiers  drilled — a  gallant  breed 
Of  men  that  held  the  Yankee,  Swede, 
[187] 


And  Weckquaesgeek  in  high  disdain. 
Upon  this  level,  then  "The  Plaine," 
Van  Twiller  broached  the  foaming  keg, 
Stout  Peter  stumped  on  timber  leg. 

Here  drovers  sold  the  flock's  increase; 
The  sullen  savage  sued  for  peace; 
The  young  folk  came,  with  dances  gay 
And  garlands,  bringing  in  the  May, 
While  elders  nodded,  sage  and  bland, 
And  lovers  rambled  hand  in  hand — 
Till  English  guns  in  churlish  rage 
Knelled  out  our  city's  Golden  Age. 

Then,  richly  turfed  and  weeded  clean, 
The  gentry  laid  the  level  green, 
Alluring  sport-delighting  souls 
To  cast  the  jack  and  hurl  the  bowls. 
And  here,  as  loyal  hearts  decreed, 
King  George  bestrode  a  leaden  steed, 
Till  hot  rebellion  spurned  the  Crown 
And  horse  and  king  went  crashing  down. 

Thrice  welcome,  Peace!    The  British  drum 
Hath  beat  retreat;   and  see!   they  come! 
[188] 


With  heads  erect  and  muskets  true 
The  tattered  troops  in  buff  and  blue — 
The  men  that  crossed  the  Delaware 
And  trapped  the  Hessian  in  his  lair — 
The  men  of  York,  of  Monmouth  plain, 
Who   marched   with   Greene,   who   charged   with 
Wayne, 

Who  fought  the  war  of  seven  years, 
Who  whipped  the  Redcoat  Grenadiers — 
With  swinging  stride  come  marching  in, 
And  all  the  air  is  wild  with  din; 
While,  strong  of  limb  and  stout  of  soul, 
Van  Arsdale  climbs  the  well-greased  pole 
And  wrenches  down  the  crimson  rag 
And  sets  on  high  the  starry  flag! 

This  bit  of  turf  that  woos  the  sun 
The  stately  step  of  Washington 
Hath  pressed;     and  Fulton  knew  it  well; 
And  Irving  loved  its  hallowed  spell. 
It  knows  the  visions,  strifes,  and  tears 
And  joys  of  thrice  a  hundred  years. 
Unchanged  amid  a  changing  scene, 
The  city's  heart  is  Bowling  Green. 
[189] 


Periods 


MARY  MURRAY  OF  MURRAY  HILL 

"DELMONT"  was  the  name  given  by  Lindley 
*~*  Murray  to  his  mansion  that  stood  on  the 
height  called  by  the  Dutch  "the  Incleberg,"  but 
now  known  as  "Murray  Hill,"  in  the  neighborhood 
of  what  is  now  Park  Avenue  and  Thirty-seventh 
Street. 

The  Murray  estate  lay  in  the  direct  line  of  march 
of  the  British  forces  under  Sir  William  Howe, 
when,  on  September  15,  1776,  having  effected  a 
landing  at  Kip's  Bay  on  the  East  River  about 
Thirty-fourth  Street,  they  advanced  across  the 
island  and  northward  in  the  wake  of  the  re 
treating  Americans.  A  picturesque  tradition  tells 
that  the  strategic  hospitality  of  Mary  Murray, 
delaying  the  British  general,  enabled  Putnam  and 
Aaron  Burr  to  withdraw  Silliman's  brigade  and 
Knox's  artillery  from  a  perilous  position  in  the 
city  to  the  southward. 


193 


MARY  MURRAY  OF  MURRAY  HILL 

THE  Lady  of  Belmont  looked  out  to  the  east: 
The  smoke  of  the  battle  was  wafted  aside; 

The  shattering  roar  of  the  cannon  had  ceased; 
The  British  flotilla  swept  over  the  tide. 

And  on  came  the  gallant  battalions  in  red 
With  glimmer  of  steel  and  victorious  cheers; 

The  hills  of  Manhattan  re-echoed  their  tread — 
The  conquering  march  of  the  King's  Grenadiers. 

The  Lady  of  Belmont  looked  south  to  the  sea; 

Manhattan's  green  valleys  were  spread  to  her 

ken; 
"And  whose  may  that  column  of  riflemen  be 

Now  plain  on  the  hillside,  now  hid  in  the  glen  ?" 

"Tis  Putnam's!  Gray  Putnam,  to  dangers  anew 
He  carries  the  scars  of  the  Indian  fights! 

But  where  may  the  doughty  old  hero  win  through 
To  Washington's  army  encamped  on  the 
Heights? 

[194] 


"For,  barring  his  path,  moves  the  army  of  Howe — 
Then  Howe  must  be  halted  whatever  the  cost! 

No  valor  can  save  the  old  general  now; 
'Tis  Howe  must  be  halted,  or  Putnam  is  lost!" 

The  Lady  of  Belmont  came  down  from  her  tower 
As  Howe  at  her  gateway  his  battle-steed  reined. 

"Now  rest  thee,  Sir  William,"  she  cried,  "for  an 

hour! 
Thy  warfare  is  over,  the  laurel  is  gained. 

"And  since  thou  hast  conquered  my  friends  with 
the  sword, 

The  meed  of  a  victor  must  fall  to  thy  share; 
Then  sit,  if  thou  wilt,  at  a  true  rebel's  board 

And  taste,  if  thou  wilt,  of  our  good  rebel  fare." 

Then  light  laughed  Sir  William  and  leaped  to  the 
ground 

(And  still,  at  his  word,  stood  the  glittering  ranks) ; 
He  bowed  to  the  lady  in  homage  profound, 

In  phrases  right  courtly  he  spake  her  true  thanks. 

And  long  had  he  tarried  her  bounty  to  taste, 
For  rich  was  her  larder  and  merry  was  she, 

When  up  rode  an  orderly  spurring  in  haste: 
"111  tidings,  ill  tidings,  Sir  William!"  cried  he. 
[197] 


"For  Putnam  hath  slipped  through  the  gap  in  our 
line! 

He  snapped  at  our  vanguard,  the  crafty  old  fox, 
And,  flaunting  his  flag  with  its  evergreen  pine, 

Is  off  to  the  rebels  encamped  on  the  rocks!" 

Oh,  wroth  was  Sir  William,  but  sweetly  he  smiled, 
And  murmured,  full  knightly,  "Fair  Lady,  I 
fear 

The  fox  stole  away  as  the  hounds  were  beguiled. 
Kind  hostess,  thy  bounty  hath  cost  us  too  dear!" 


198] 


UNCLE  SAM   TO  JOHN  BULL 

John  Bullikins,  my  jo,  John, 

We've  known  each  other  long. 
I've  sometimes  thought  you  right,  John, 

And  often  thought  you  wrong. 
We've  had  our  little  tiffs,  John; 

Yet,  whether  friend  or  foe, 
I've  nursed  a  high  regard  for  you, 

John  Bullikins,  my  jo. 

John  Bullikins,  my  jo,  John, 

When  all  is  said  and  done, 
A  letter  friend  than  you,  John, 

Is  not  beneath  the  sun. 
Youve  planted  noble  realms,  John, 

Where  men  may  freely  grow; 
I  wouldn't  lose  you  for  the  world, 

John  Bullikins,  my  jo. 

John  Bullikins,  my  jo,  John, 
What  bunglers  we  have  been! — 

For  I'm  a  bungler,  too,  John, 
Which  makes  us  closer  kin. 
J.  199  ] 


We'll  somehow  blunder  throughy  John; 

Then  humbly  we  will  go 
To  school  together,  hand  in  handt 

John  Bullikins,  my  jo. 


I  200] 


HAARLEM  HEIGHTS 

HISTORIANS  of  the  Revolution  have  generally 
underestimated  the  importance  of  the  Battle 
of  Haarlem  Heights,  the  lively  encounter  between 
detachments  of  the  King's  troops  and  Washing 
ton's  forces,  September  16,  1776,  upon  the  hills 
extending  south  from  West  One  Hundred  and 
Thirtieth  Street,  now  sometimes  called  the  "Acrop 
olis  of  New  York." 

While  this  skirmish  was  in  the  main  an  affair 
of  outposts,  it  was  the  first  fight  in  which  the 

[  201  ] 


Americans  defeated  their  opponents  in  the  open 
field,  and  the  victory,  though  barren  of  direct 
results,  was  an  inspiration  to  the  disheartened 
soldiers  and  was  hailed  by  them  as  an  earnest  of 
ultimate  success. 


[202] 


HAARLEM  HEIGHTS 

Captain  Stephen  Brown  of  Knowlton's  Connecticut 
Rangers  tells  of  the  affair  of  September  1 6,  1776. 

THEY'VE  turned!  they've  fought!    Good-by,  King 
George, 

Despite  your  hireling  band! 
Our  'prentice  lads  have  borne  a  brunt; 

Our  farmer  boys  will  stand! 

Though  Peace  may  lag  and  Fortune  flag, 

The  fight's  as  good  as  won; 
We've  made  them  yield  in  open  field! 

We've  seen  the  Redcoats  run! 

Our  Rangers  sallied  forth  at  dawn 

With  Knowlton  at  their  head 
To  rout  the  British  pickets  out 

And  'change  a  pound  o'  lead. 

[203] 


We  gave  them  eight  brisk  rounds  apiece 

And,  fighting,  hurried  back 
For,  eighteenscore,  the  Light-armed  Corps 

Were  hot  upon  our  track. 

Along  the  vale  of  Bloomingdale 

They  pressed  our  scant  array; 
They  swarmed  the  crag  and  jeered  our  flag 

Across  the  Hollow  Way. 

Their  flankers  hooted,  "Hark,  away!" 

Their  buglers,  from  the  wall, 
In  boastful  vaunt  and  bitter  taunt 

Brayed  forth  the  hunting-call. 

Oh,  sound  of  shame!     It  woke  a  flame 

In  every  sunburnt  face; 
And  every  soul  was  hot  as  coal 

To  cleanse  the  foul  disgrace; 

Ay,  some  that  blenched  on  Brooklyn  Heights 

And  fled  at  Turtle  Bay 
Fair  wept  for  wrath,  and  thronged  my  path 

And  clamored  for  the  fray. 

[204] 


Our  general  came  spurring! 

(There  rolled  a  signal  drum); 
His  eye  was  bright,  he  reared  his  height, 

He  knew  the  time  had  come. 

He  gave  the  word  to  Knowlton 

That  led  our  own  command, 
The  pick  of  green  Connecticut — 

And  Leitch  with  Weedon's  band 

Of  tall  Virginia  riflemen, 

Free  hunters  of  the  deer, 
To  round  the  braggart  Briton's  flank 

And  take  him  in  the  rear. 

We  left  the  dell,  we  scaled  the  fell, 

And  up  the  crest  we  sprang, 
When,  crackling  sharp  along  the  scarp, 

A  deadly  volley  rang, 

And  down  went  Leitch  of  Weedon's  band 
Deep  hurt,  but  dauntless  still; 

And  down  went  Knowlton,  sword  in  hand- 
The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

[205] 


I  raised  his  head.     But  this  he  said, 

Death-wounded  as  he  lay. 
"Lead  on  the  fight!     My  hurt  is  light 

If  Freedom  win  the  day!" 

In  open  rank  we  struck  their  flank, 
And  oh!  the  fight  was  hot! 

Up  came  the  Hessian  Yagers, 
Up  came  the  kilted  Scot, 

Up  came  the  men  of  Linsingen, 

Von  Donop's  Grenadiers! 
But  swift  we  sped  the  whistling  lead 

About  the  Dutchmen's  ears. 

They  buckled  front  to  Varnum's  brunt, 
We  crumpled  up  their  right, 

And,  driving  back  the  crimson  wrack, 
We  swept  along  the  height. 

The  helmet  of  the  Hessian 

Is  tumbled  in  the  wheat! 
The  tartan  of  the  Highlander 

Shall  be  his  winding-sheet! 
[1061 


In  mingled  rout  we  drove  them  out 
From  orchard,  field,  and  glen; 

In  goodly  case  it  seemed  to  chase 
Our  "hunters"  home  again! 

We  flaunted  in  their  faces 

The  flag  they  thought  to  scorn, 

And  left  them  with  a  wild  "Hurrah!" 
To  choke  their  hunting-horn! 

Upon  a  ledge  embattled 

Above  the  river  strand 
We  dug  the  grave  for  Knowlton 

And  Leitch  of  Weedon's  band; 

And  though  our  star  through  stress  of  war 

Desert  this  island  throne, 
Upon  that  ledge  remains  the  pledge 

That  we  will  claim  our  own! 


[207] 


THE  BLOCK-HOUSE  IN   THE  PARK 

The  North  Wind  storms  my  rugged  front, 
The  ivy  scales  my  southern  wall; 

I  never  knew  the  crashing  brunt 
Of  musketry  or  cannon-ball. 

When  armies  met  in  battle-shock, 
When  smoke  of  navies  rolled  afar. 

Men  made  me  strong  on  living  rock; 
I  frowned  with  guns  awaiting  war; 

Awaiting  war  that  never  came, 

A  virgin  fortress  still  I  stand; 
But  now,  unscathed  by  hostile  flame, 

I  guard  a  gate  of  Fairyland. 

For,  while  my  gloomy  watch  I  stood. 
Unmarked  the  leafy  marvel  grew; 

Behind  me  spread  the  mystic  wood — 
A  place  of  dreams  where  dreams  are  true; 
[208! 


Where  low  winds  move  the  tasseled  fir, 

Where  lilacs  breathe,  where  brown  bees  hum. 

Where  old  men  tell  of  days  that  were, 
Where  lovers  talk  of  days  to  come; 

Where  boyish  cohorts,  undismayed. 
Deploy  beneath  the  friendly  trees 

To  take  my  cliffs  by  escalade. 
May  all  their  wars  be  such  as  these! 


[209] 


THE  STORMING  OF  STONY  POINT 

TIKE  many  another  good  soldier,  before  and 
-*- '  since,  Gen.  Anthony  Wayne  strongly  objected 
to  a  nickname  imputing  to  him  the  characteristic  of 
rash,  headlong  courage.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  his 
popular  title,  "Mad  Anthony/'  is  said  to  have  been 
fastened  upon  him  by  a  grumbling  Irish  soldier 
whom  he  had  severely  disciplined.  It  is  certain 
that  Wayne  was  a  strategist  as  well  as  a  dashing 
fighter.  His  most  brilliant  exploit,  the  storming 
of  Stony  Point,  was  carefully  planned  and  perfectly 
executed;  and  Wayne's  calm  courage  is  shown  by 
the  fact  that  he  led  the  storming  party  in  person 
in  spite  of  a  strong,  though  happily  false,  premo 
nition  that  he  would  be  killed  in  the  attack. 


[210] 


THE  STORMING  OF  STONY  POINT 

HIGHLANDS  of  Hudson!  ye  saw  them  pass, 
Night  on  the  stars  of  their  battle-flag, 

Threading  the  maze  of  the  dark  morass 
Under  the  frown  of  the  Thunder  Crag; 

Flower  and  pride  of  the  Light-armed  Corps, 
Trim  in  their  trappings  of  Buff  and  Blue, 

Silent,  they  skirted  the  rugged  shore, 
Grim  in  the  promise  of  work  to  do. 

"Cross  ye  the  ford  to  the  moated  rock! 

Let  not  a  whisper  your  march  betray! 
Out  with  the  flint  from  the  musket-lock! 

Now! — let  the  bayonet  find  the  way!" 

"Halt!"  rang  the  sentinel's  challenge  clear. 

Swift  came  the  shot  of  the  waking  foe. 
Bright  flashed  the  ax  of  the  pioneer 

Smashing  the  abatis,  blow  on  blow. 

15  [211] 


Little  they  tarried  for  British  might! 

Little  they  recked  of  the  Tory  jeers! 
Laughing,  they  swarmed  to  the  crested  height, 

Steel  to  the  steel  of  the  Grenadiers! 

Storm  King  and  Dunderberg!  wake  once  more, 
Sentinel  giants  of  Freedom's  throne, 

Massive  and  proud!  to  the  eastern  shore 

Bellow  the  watchword:    "The  fort's  our  own!" 

Echo  the  cannon's  triumphant  peal! 

Shout  for  the  hero  who  led  his  band, 
Swept  on  a  billow  of  burnished  steel 

Over  the  parapet,  "spear  in  hand!" 


[212] 


If 

5-  * 


II 

r 

*£• 


OLD   TRINITY 

This  was  a  merchant,  and  that  was  a  belle. 
There  lies  a  statesman — you  know  how  he  fell. 

Under  that  monument  fronting  the  street 
Rests  the  young  sailor,  who,  spurning  defeat, 

In  a  lost  battle,  and  with  his  last  prayer 
Gave  us  a  watchword  to  challenge  Despair. 

Tory  and  Patriot  camp  side  by  side; 
Truce  of  the  turf  to  their  rancor  and  pride! 

Look  toward  the  river.     The  stone  at  your  feet 
Shelters  a  blade  of  his  Majesty  }s  fleet, 

Gallant  and  gay,  when  the  red-coated  leaven 
Troubled  our  city,  in  'seventy-seven. 

What  of  his  ending? — (the  daisies  may  know 
More  that  is  silence) — a  word  and  a  blow! 


Then,  a  locked  room  in  the  tavern,  the  gloom 
Flickered  with  candles;  the  whisper  of  doom; 

Bicker  and  ring  of  encountering  steel. 
Panting  of  bosoms,  the  stamp  of  the  heel, 

Feint,  circle,  parry,  lunge,  counter,  and  carte! — 
Dead!  like  a  man,  with  a  thrust  through  the  heart! 

What  was  the  cause?    Ah,  you  question  in  vain! 
Dorothy,  Annabel,  Phyllis,  or  Jane, 

Queen  of  assemblies  and  toast  of  the  bold, 
Somewhere  she  slumbers  in  Trinity's  mold. 

Search  in  your  heart  if  you  seek  to  descry 
That  which  is  hidden! — the  passions  that  lie 

Buried  in  Earth  with  her  grasses  above — 
Sorrow  and  Ecstasy,  Hatred  and  Love. 


[216] 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  HESSIAN 

T  1  7  HERE  the  City  Prison  now  frowns  upon 
*  *  Center  Street  a  beautiful  pond  once  allured 
the  angler  and  swimmer  in  summer  and  the  skater 
in  winter.  This  little  lake  was  called  by  the  Dutch 
"Kalch  Hoeck,"  because  of  the  vast  quantity  of 
shells  that  lined  its  shores,  and  later,  by  the  Eng 
lish,  the  Fresh  Water  or  Collect  Pond.  Originally 
it  was  a  place  of  pure  delight;  but,  perhaps  because 
of  sinister  incidents  such  as  the  hanging  of  some  of 
the  alleged  participants  in  the  Negro  Plot  on  the 
island  in  its  center,  ill-omened  rumors  spread  to 
darken  the  fair  fame  of  the  little  inland  sea.  It  was 
whispered  that  the  pond  was  bottomless  and  that 
uncanny  monsters  lurked  in  its  dark  depths,  ready 
to  seize  the  unwary  bather — a  story  that  was 
countenanced  by  several  fatalities. 

Early  in  the  last  century  a  smoke-breathing 
monster  did  indeed  swim  upon  the  surface  of  the 
lake,  for  it  was  here  that  Robert  Fulton  launched 
the  model  of  his  first  steamboat.  Abuse  and  neg- 


lect  finally  changed  the  once  bright  sheet  of  water 
into  a  foul  and  evil-odored  pool,  and  about  1810 
the  Collect  Pond  was  drained  and  filled  in  and  dis 
appeared  from  the  city  map,  to  be  recalled  only 
in  a  few  traditions  such  as  that  which  follows. 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  HESSIAN 
A  LEGEND  OF  THE  COLLECT  POND 

WHO  blusters  along  with  his  clattering  blade, 
In  green  regimentals  and  brass-fronted  helm, 

With  blackened  mustaches,  and  hair  in  pomade 
And    powder — as    proud    as    a    Prussian? — the 
schelm ! 

Who  ruffles  with  bullies  and  frightens  the  fops? 

Who  growls  at  the  tavern,  gruff- voiced  as  a  bear: 

"Sturmwetter  un  Hagel!    Schnell!    Hier  mit  mein 

schnapps?" 

Why,  Friedrich  von  Heusen,  the  Hessian  chas 
seur; 

The  scorn  of  the  Briton  who  gives  him  his  pay; 

The  tyrant  and  dread  of  the  Tory  recruits, 
The  bugbear  of  children,  who  shrink  from  the  way 

And  quake  at  the  creak  of  his  heavy-soled  boots, 


For  foul  are  the  rumors  that  darken  the  door 
Of  Sugar-House  Prison — that  Keep  of  Despair, 

Where  poor,  captive  rebels  are  dead  by  the  score 
In  Friedrich  the  Jailer's  benevolent  care! 

The  Hessian  caroused  at  the  inn  till  the  gray 
Stole  over  the  rose  where  the  sun  had  gone  down, 

Then  strolled  through  the  fields  to  the  Collect 

that  lay 
Embosomed  in  meads,  to  the  north  of  the  town — 

A  lake  that  was  loved  by  the  angler,  who  claimed 
The  crimson-flecked  trout  of  its  crystalline  waves, 

But  shunned  after  twilight,  for  monsters  unnamed 
Arose  from  the  depths  of  its  bottomless  caves. 

As  Friedrich  glanced  out  toward  its  centering  isle 
He  spied  in  the  thicket,  half  hidden  from  view, 

A  form,  worn  and  wasted  and  lean  as  a  file, 
In  rags  of  rebellion — the  BufF  and  the  Blue. 

"  Ho,  kerl !"  jeered  the  jailer,  "thy  garments  are  torn ! 

Thou  runaway  rebel,  come  hither,  I  say! 
Thy  comrades  are  lonely,  thy  prison's  forlorn. 

No?    Dummkopf!    Til  fetch  thee;  and  then  shalt 
thou  pay!" 

[220] 


He  cast  down  his  helmet  in  ireful  haste, 

He  kicked  off  his  jack-boots,  he  tore  off  his  coat, 

And,  girding  the  big-hiked  sword  to  his  waist, 
He  splashed  in  the  lake  with  a  curse  in  his  throat. 

The  waters,  as  black  as  the  glass  of  Lorraine, 
Were  stirred  from  their  depths  with  a  heave  and 

a  roll; 
Fright-stricken,   the   Hessian   surged   forward — in 

vain! 
The  Fiend  of  the  Collect  had  come  for  his  toll! 

He  struggled,  but  silent,  resistless  as  Fate 

A  huge  scaly  arm  strained  his  thews,  fold  on 
fold, 

He  screamed  in  his  madness;  remorseless  as  Hate 
A  great,  evil  claw  gripped  his  throat  in  its  hold. 

The  bubbles  rose,  sobbing,  then  ceased  and  were 

still; 

The  ripple  was  hushed  on  the  shell-littered  shore; 
The  darkness  descended  on  river  and  hill; 

And  field,  camp,  and  prison  knew  Fried  rich  no 
more! 


221] 


THE  INN:  AN  OLD  EPITAPH 

Post-haste  we  ride  the  road  of  men 
From  shadow  through  to  shade  again, 
But  rein,  to  breathe  or  tighten  girth, 
At  that  old  inn  yclept  "  The  Earth" 
There  some  delay  to  dine  and  sup. 
While  some  but  taste  a  stirrup-cup; 
And  some  have  ease  and  ample  fare, 
And  some  find  little  comfort  there. 
His  score  is  large  who  bides  a  day; 
Who  soonest  goes  hath  least  to  pay. 


[222] 


THE  DYCKMAN  HOUSE 

1VTORTH  of  the  line  of  Dyckman  Street  to 
^  ^  Spuyten  Duyvil  Kill  stretched  the  domain 
ruled  by  the  dynasties  of  Jan  Dyckman  and  Jan 
Nagel,  and  ruled  in  neighborly  amity  save  for  the 
comparatively  brief  duration  of  a  feud  arising 
from  a  violation  of  manorial  ethics — the  Nagel 
goose  strayed  into  the  Dyckman  corn  and  was  bit 
ten  by  the  Dyckman  dog.  For  a  time  the  feeling 
aroused  by  this  episode  was  so  bitter  that  the  trans 
action  of  public  business  was  hampered  by  the  re 
fusal  of  the  heads  of  the  two  houses  to  sit  on  the 
same  administrative  board.  But  the  breach  was 
soon  healed.  In  fact,  a  year  after  the  death  of 
Nagel,  in  1689,  Jan  Dyckman  married  the  widow 
of  his  late  feudal  brother,  and  the  second  genera 
tion  of  both  clans  was  reared  under  the  same  roof. 
Yet  the  Dyckmans  appear  to  have  been  the  stronger 
breed,  and  "Dyckman"  still  remains  a  name  to 
conjure  by  in  northern  Manhattan.  The  original 
Dyckman  homestead  was  burned  during  the  Revo- 

[223] 


lution;  but  the  farm-house  built  by  William  Dyck- 
man  and  his  sons  in  1783  on  their  return  from  the 
war  and  exile  still  stands  on  the  west  side  of  Broad 
way  at  Two  Hundred  and  Fourth  Street,  restored 
and  converted  into  a  public  memorial  of  the  past 
through  the  generosity  of  the  inheritors  of  the 
Dyckman  blood  and  spirit. 


[2241 


THE  DYCKMAN  HOUSE 

PLAIN  as  the  brass  of  an  old  sword-hilt 

Is  the  tale  of  the  house  that  the  Dyckmans  built. 

In  Charles  the  Second's  jovial  reign, 
Jan,  the  first  of  the  Dyckman  strain, 
Fair-haired,  ruddy,  strong,  and  shrewd, 
Cleared  the  soil,  and  his  hardy  brood 
Killed  the  wolves  in  their  rocky  lairs, 
Turned  the  loam  with  iron  shares. 

Full  a  hundred  years  had  fled; 
Well  the  Dyckman  race  had  sped; 
Sweet  their  orchards,  broad  their  farms 
When  Freedom  called  true  men  to  arms. 
They  nursed  no  doubts  of  the  need  of  force; 
They  did  their  part  as  a  thing  of  course. 
Forth  they  sallied,  boy  and  man. 
William,  head  of  the  Dyckman  clan, 
Took  the  field,  and  his  three  good  sons 
Marched  along  with  their  flintlock  guns — 


Abraham  bold  and  Michael  keen 

And  blithe  young  William,  aged  thirteen. 

Through  the  war  with  its  changing  tides 
The  Dyckmans  fought  in  the  gallant  Guides. 
Their  chronicles  may  still  be  found 
In  the  blood-stained  roll  of  the  Neutral  Ground, 
And  yellowed,  time-worn  records  tell 
How  sturdy  Abraham  Dyckman  fell, 
Raiding  the  camp  of  De  Lancey's  corps, 
And  how  young  William  paid  that  score. 

Peace  at  last! — In  full  retreat 
Sounded  the  tramp  of  alien  feet 
Quitting  the  isle  we  love; — and  then 
The  Dyckmans  came  to  their  own  again. 
But  the  camping  foe  had  left  their  land 
Bare  as  the  back  of  a  baby's  hand. 
Waste  were  the  fields  and  the  orchards,  too; 
Burned  was  the  home  in  which  they  grew. 

The  Dyckman  breed  were  men  of  force; 
They  took  their  task  as  a  thing  of  course. 
Again  they  plowed  their  wasted  leas, 
Again  they  set  their  orchard  trees; 

[226] 


With  toughened  timbers,  marked  by  fire, 

From  tumbled  barn  and  ruined  byre, 

They  raised  the  framework,  strongly  planned, 

Of  this  old  house.     Long  may  it  stand 

A  monument  for  coming  years 

Of  the  last  of  the  flower  of  the  pioneers. 

For  in  this  brave  old  house  survives 
The  lesson  blazed  by  its  builders'  lives: 

"Be  true;  and  keep,  whatever  befall, 
The  faith  that  each  man  owes  to  all. 
Be  strong;  for  strength  shall  purge  you  clear 
Of  all  mean  hatreds  born  of  Fear. 
Then,  should  the  years  that  hither  press 
Bring  other  days  of  storm  and  stress, 
A  race  of  clean-limbed,  clear-eyed  men 
Shall  look  the  world  in  the  face  again." 
16 


[227] 


OUR  COLONEL 

Deep  loving,  well  knowing 
His  world  and  its  blindness, 

A  heart  overflowing 

With  measureless  kindness, 

Undaunted  in  labor 

(And  Death  was  a  trifle). 
Steel-true  as  a  saber, 

Direct  as  a  rifle, 

All  Man  in  his  doing, 
All  Boy  in  his  laughter, 

He  fronted,  unruing, 

The  Now  and  Hereafter, 

A  storm-battling  cedar, 
A  comrade,  a  brother — 

Oh,  such  was  our  leader, 
Beloved  as  no  other! 
[228] 


When  weaker  souls  faltered 

His  courage  remade  us, 
Whose  tongue  never  paltered, 

Who  never  betrayed  us. 

His  hand  on  your  shoulder 

All  honors  exceeding. 
What  breast  but  was  bolder 

Because  he  was  leading! 

And  still  in  our  trouble, 
In  peace  or  in  war-time, 

His  word  shall  redouble 
Our  strength  as  aforetime. 

When  wrongs  cry  for  righting 
No  odds  shall  appal  us; 

To  clean,  honest  fighting 
Again  he  will  call  us, 

And,  cowboys  or  doughboys, 
We'll  follow  his  drum,  boys, 

Who  never  said,  "Go,  boys!" 
But  always  said,  "Come,  boys!" 

[229] 


A  RAID  OF  THE  NEUTRAL  GROUND 

TT^vURING  the  greater  part  of  the  Revolutionary 
•-^  War  the  British  lines  were  at  King's  Bridge, 
at  the  upper  end  of  Manhattan  Island,  the  Amer 
ican  outposts  about  thirty  miles  to  the  north.  The 
No  Man's  Land  in  between,  the  lovely  hill-and- 
valley  region  of  Westchester,  was  known  as  "the 
Neutral  Ground,"  presumably  because  there  was 
more  mixed  fighting  to  the  square  mile  in  that 
locality  than  anywhere  else  in  the  thirteen  states. 
The  rallying-place  of  the  American  partizans  was 
a  stone  building  known  as  Young's  house,  not  far 
from  White  Plains,  which  commanded  the  road 
'eading  down  the  Valley  of  the  Nepperhan. 
Young's  house  was  burned  by  the  enemy;  and 
the  following  ballad  tells  the  tale  of  a  retaliatory 
attack  by  the  Westchester  Guides  and  other  Revo 
lutionary  forces,  upon  De  Lancey's  Royal  Refuge 
Corps  encamped  under  the  guns  of  Fort  Number 
Eight  on  the  heights  overlooking  the  Harlem  River. 
As  the  old  campaigner  who  tells  the  story  of  the 

[230] 


raid  is,  like  all  of  the  Revolutionary  party,  so  bitter 
against  the  Tories,  it  is  well  to  remember  that  these 
American  loyalists  were,  to  a  large  extent,  men  of 
high  principle,  honestly  devoted  to  their  cause,  and 
that  the  infant  Republic  lost  much  of  its  best  blood 
by  their  wholesale  migration  to  Canada  at  the 
close  of  the  war. 


231] 


A  RAID  OF  THE  NEUTRAL  GROUND 

"Up!  bully  boys  of  the  Nepperhan! 

Gather!  ye  troopers,  grim  and  rough; 
Ye  of  the  hardy  homespun  clan, 

Ye  who  have  trained  in  the  Blue  and  Buff. 
Come  from  the  Highlands,  grandly  free, 

Barring  the  stream  to  the  baffled  foe; 
Come  from  your  farms  by  the  Tappan  Zee, 

Come  from  the  Vale  of  Pocantico!" 
Dark  of  the  moon;  and  shadows  deep 

Curtain  the  road  on  field  and  ridge; 
Laggardly  watch  the  redcoats  keep, 

Calling  the  word  at  Dyckman's  Bridge. 

Down  in  a  dell  by  the  Sawmill  ford 

Fourscore  men  to  the  muster  throng; 
Scarred  are  some  by  the  British  sword, 

Scarred  are  some  by  the  deeper  wrong: 
Murdoch — he  of  the  Monmouth  fray; 

Dircksen,  wreck  of  a  massive  bulk, 
One  of  the  hundreds  racked  away, 

Starved  in  the  Jersey  s  prison  hulk; 

[232] 


Dyckman,  breathing  his  dead  boy's  name; 

Young,  God  knoweth,  a  vengeful  man, 
Brooding  and  dark  since  the  Tory  flame 

Blackened  his  home  by  the  Nepperhan. 
Oh,  give  and  take  is  the  way  of  war, 

And  of  cloven  helmets  our  own  swords  tell; 
But  the  turncoat  curs  of  the  Tory  corps 

We  hate  as  we  hate  the  gates  of  hell. 

Only  the  beaver,  sunk  from  view, 

Watched  us  pass  with  a  furtive  eye; 
Only  the  owl  of  Mosholu 

Challenged  us  as  we  skirted  by; 
Only  the  stars,  through  a  drift  of  gray 

Silently  beckoning,  led  us  straight 
There  where  De  Lancey's  Tories  lay 

Under  the  guns  of  Number  Eight. 

"Brands!"   And  the  bridge  upon  Haarlem's  breast 

Melts  in  a  broken  chain  of  fire; 
Every  hut  has  a  flaming  crest, 

Every  shack  is  a  blazing  pyre. 
Blundering  out  to  the  lurid  night 

Rally  the  shreds  of  the  hated  corps; 
Speak  to  them!  gun  of  the  Trenton  fight, 

Bell-muzzled  piece  of  the  Indian  War! 

[235] 


Reavers  and  harriers,  each  and  all, 
Traitors  with  blood  of  their  country  wet — 

Ply  them  with  rifle  and  musket-ball! 
At  them  with  saber  and  bayonet! 

Loosen  the  horses!     Burn  the  hay! 

Kill  whom  ye  must  and  take  whom  ye  can, 
For  the  Yagers  are  up  on  the  King's  Bridge  Way. 

So  it's  back!  through  the  Valley  of  Nepperhan! 
Three  miles  up  through  the  well-known  glade, 

Helmeted  Yagers  hard  on  our  track, 
Laughing,  we  turned  at  our  ambuscade, 

Hurling  the  Hessians  staggering  back. 


[236] 


Dark  were  our  deeds  of  the  steel  and  brand? 

Aye.     But  they  weaned  a  stubborn  foe, 
Held  him  at  bay,  while  our  leader  planned, 

Cautious  and  wise,  for  the  final  blow. 
Judge  us  fairly,  if  judge  ye  may; 

Freed  is  our  country  of  hostile  ban; 
Redcoat  and  Hessian  have  had  their  day; 

Peace  rules  the  Vale  of  the  Nepperhan. 


[237] 


WASHINGTON  IN   WALL   STREET 

Sublime,  where  traffic's  billows  beat 
A  nation's  wealth  about  his  feet. 
He  stands;   upon  the  surging  street 

He  looks  benignly  down. 
He  hears  the  distant,  wall-hid  sea, 
The  silver  chime  of  Trinity, 
And,  voicing  passion,  grief,  or  glee. 
Our  million-throated  town. 

And,  up  and  down,  our  tasks  we  ply 
With  rapid  step  and  heedless  eye, 
Alert  alone  to  sell  and  buy; 

But  when  the  day  grows  dim, 
When  evening  brings  its  sweet  release 
From  toil  and  care,  when  tumults  cease, 
When  twilight  crowns  his  brow  with  peace, 

The  children  come  to  him. 

Rejoicing,  free,  in  careless  grace 
They  climb  the  massy  granite  base; 

[238] 


Unazved,  they  view  that  noble  face, 
They  swarm  the  brawn  knees 

Whose  polished  surface  now  denies 

The  gray  of  age  that  artists  prize; 

But  more  than  art  is  all  that  lies 
In  love  of  such  as  these. 

What  matters  race,  or  hue,  or  creed? 
Though  born  to  wealth  or  born  to  needy 
Or  sprung  of  poor  plebeian  seed 

Or  proud  patrician  stem, 
From  lowly  hut  or  lordly  hall — 
By  these  his  land  shall  rise  or  fall. 
His  hand  outstretched  above  them  all, 

Their  father  blesses  them. 


[239] 


FORT  TRYON 

CORT  TRYON,  at  One  Hundred  and  Ninety- 
*•  sixth  Street  and  Fort  Washington  Avenue, 
overlooking  the  Hudson,  was  the  key  to  the  north 
ern  defenses  of  Fort  Washington;  and  its  capture 
by  the  Hessians  under  Rahl  and  Knyphausen, 
after  a  desperate  defense,  November  16,  1776,  gave 
Manhattan  Island  to  the  enemy  for  'the  remainder 
of  the  war. 


240 


FORT  TRYON 

AGAIN  there's  a  golden  haze 

On  the  shadow  of  Hudson  glades; 
Again  are  the  leaves  ablaze 

On  the  breast  of  the  Palisades; 
Again  from  the  loft  of  the  wind-swept  stair 

We  watch  how  the  sea-gulls  fly, 
And  we  drink  full  draughts  of  the  sparkling  air 

From  the  deep  blue  cup  of  sky. 

Look  south  where  the  ocean  rills, 

Look  east  to  the  dancing  Sound, 
Look  north  to  the  swelling  hills 

And  the  vales  of  the  Neutral  Ground ! 
From  the  Mart  of  the  Sea  where  the  millions  toil 

To  the  heights  in  the  farthest  ken 
There  is  never  a  rood  of  the  sacred  soil 

But  was  bought  with  the  blood  of  men. 

The  red  that  the  woodland  shows, 

The  swell  of  the  city's  hum, 
Seem  the  garb  of  advancing  foes 

And  the  roll  of  a  phantom  drum; 


The  glimmer  that  leaps  to  the  parapet 
As  we  look  toward  the  Northern  Town 

Is  the  shimmer  of  helmet  and  bayonet 
As  the  Hessian  troops  come  down. 

Once  more  swing  the  hostile  boats 

In  the  eddies  of  Haarlem  Kill, 
While  the  Cross  of  the  Briton  floats 

On  the  ramparts  of  Laurel  Hill; 
And  the  grass-mantled  battlements  wake  again 

To  the  whir  of  the  musket-ball 
And  the  shouts  of  the  Maryland  Riflemen 

As  they  close  with  the  hosts  of  Rahll 

What  need  that  defeat  be  cloaked? 

They  lost;  but  was  theirs  the  blame 
Who  fought  till  their  rifles  choked 

With  the  reek  of  the  darted  flame? 
And  the  meed  of  their  deaths,  of  their  woes  and 
scars 

Is  a  boon  such  alone  could  buy; 
See!  the  stainless  Flag  of  the  Clustered  Stars 

Rides  alone  in  a  peaceful  sky! 


242 


DECATUR'S    TOAST 

"Our  Country!  In  her  intercourse  with  foreign  nations 
may  she  always  be  right;  but,  Our  Country — Right  or 
Wrong!" — COMMODORE  STEPHEN  DECATUR,  Norfolk, 
Virginia,  April,  1816. 

Up  rose,  triumphant,  from  his  seat 

The  Bayard  of  the  Sea — 
The  lion  of  our  laureled  fleet, 

The  scourge  of  Barbary; 
His  glass  abrim  with  bubbling  light, 

He  pledged  that  brilliant  throng — 
" Our  Country! — be  she  ever  right; 

Our  Country! — right  or  wrong!" 

Then  round  about  the  oaken  board 

The  goblets  leaped  and  rang, 
And  fervent  fingers  pressed  the  sword 

As  up  the  heroes  sprang; 
No  mawkish  qualms  or  doubts  had  they 

That  echoed  deep  and  strong, 
"Our  Country! — ever  right,  we  pray; 

Our  Country — right  or  wrong! 
17  [  243  ] 


Too  well  the  stifling  mists  they  knew 

That  dimmed  the  Stars  we  bore — 
The  plots  of  banded  traitors,  who, 

Amid  the  stress  of  war, 
Made  weightier  their  nation's  woes, 

Till  rose  the  patriot  song: 
"  When  face  to  face  with  foreign  foes, 

Our  Country! — right  or  wrong!" 

Stanch  lovers  of  our  free  domain, 

We  strive  for  truth  and  right 
With  honest  force  of  heart  and  brain 

As  God  may  give  us  light. 
But  doubts  must  yield  and  ties  must  break 

When  darkening  perils  throng; 
And  when  the  sullen  guns  awake, 

"Our  Country! — right  or  wrong!" 


244] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  PAUL  JONES 

1VJO  more  picturesque  figure  ever  adorned  a 
^  ^  quarter-deck  than  Commodore  John  Paul 
Jones,  whom  some  English  writers  even  in  recent 
days  have  insisted  on  miscalling  a  "Scotch  pirate." 

Jones's  daring  cruise  in  British  waters  in  1777-78 
spread  a  terror  along  the  coasts  utterly  out  of 
proportion  to  the  insignificance  of  his  force — a 
terror  still  evidenced  by  queer  old  songs  of  the 
day  and  grotesque  caricatures  representing  the 
rather  dapper  commodore  as  a  most  ruffianly 
pirate.  His  chief  exploit  was  the  capture  of  the 
Serapis  off  Flamborough  Head,  September  23, 
1779,  after  the  most  desperate  fight  between  single 
vessels  on  record. 

Although  some  recent  biographers  have  claimed 
for  Jones  more  than  history  warrants,  there  is  no 
doubt  that  he  was  a  dauntless  fighter,  an  able 
strategist,  an  admirable  seaman,  something  of  a 
diplomat,  and  withal  a  man  most  punctilious  in 
honor. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  PAUL  JONES 

"For  Capt.  Paul  Jones  ever  loved  close  fighting." — 
BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

HE  hath  masted  the  flag  of  the  crimson  bars 

To  dance  in  a  gladdened  sky. 
He  hath  claimed  a  salute  for  the  Thirteen  Stars, 

And  the  cannon  of  France  reply. 

He  hath  harried  the  barks  of  the  Narrow  Seas, 
He  hath  trodden  the  Scottish  ling, 

He  hath  flaunted  his  rebel  blazonries 
In  the  face  of  the  stubborn  king. 

From  the  Frith  of  Forth  through  the  startled  North 

The  panic  rumor  runs, 

And  the  coastguards  south  into  Humber  Mouth 
Know  the  blare  of  the  Yankee  guns. 

He  had  cruised  that  coast  for  a  week,  I  wis, 

And  mickle  the  woe  and  loss, 
When  he  was  aware  of  the  Serapis 

That  floated  St.  George's  Cross. 

[246] 


And  her  sailors  laughed:     "Ho!  merchant  craft, 

What  cargo  have  ye  got?" 
"Have  back  your  jape!    We  carry  grape 

And  round  and  double  shot!" 

Then  the  thundering  broadsides  flashed  and  roared 

And  the  musketry  sped  its  rain; 
But  the  second  round  that  the  Richard  poured 

Her  great  guns  burst  amain. 

There  was  slaughter  and  wreck   to  her  quarter 
deck, 

And  the  foemen  knew  her  plight; 
"Have  you  struck?"  they  sang.    His  answer  rang: 

"I  have  not  begun  to  fight!" 

He  veered  around  till  his  counter  ground 

On  the  bows  of  the  British  craft; 
He  grappled  her  fast  to  his  mizzenmast, 

He  grappled  her  fore  and  aft. 

Their  yards  were  locked  as  the  horns  of  stags 

That  war  on  the  trampled  steep. 
They  strove  in  night  as  the  dragons  fight 

In  the  darks  of  the  churning  deep. 

[247] 


And  gun  kissed  gun  with  the  kiss  of  hate 

And  the  ban  of  the  blazing  lip; 
And  the  gunners  leant  till  the  rammers  went 

Through  the  ports  of  the  hostile  ship. 


And  shot  rent  through  and  splinters  flew; 

It  was  fire  and  flood  and  wrack, 
Red  flame  ashine  on  hissing  brine 

And  red  blood  curdling  black. 

But  ever  the  Richard's  topmen  swept 
The  decks  of  the  shrinking  foe; 

They  won  their  way  with  the  musket-play 
\Vhile  the  Briton  raged  below. 

[248] 


The  sailors  clung  to  the  dizzy  shrouds 

And  spars  that  bent  and  swayed; 
Through  the  open  keeps  to  the  powder-heaps 

They  hurled  the  loud  grenade. 

A  roar  went  up  from  the  Serapis, 

A  roar  and  a  cry  of  bale, 
The  smoke-cloud  rolled  from  her  shattered  hold 

And  she  leaped  like  a  wounded  whale. 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  Richard's  crew 
As  they  swarmed  o'er  the  side  to  strike, 

And  the  moonlight  played  on  the  cutlass  blade 
And  the  flame  on  the  boarding-pike. 

A  sullen  hail  from  her  quarter-deck, 

A  cheer  from  the  Yankee  tars; 
St.  George's  Cross  must  own  its  loss, 

To  the  steel  of  the  Thirteen  Stars. 


He  hath  taken  his  prize  to  the  Texel  Roads 
Where  none  should  work  him  wrong, 

But  the  British  wrath  is  about  his  path, 
And  the  British  arm  is  strong. 
[249] 


And  the  Land  of  the  Fen  is  scant  of  men; 

Though  her  people  speak  him  fair, 
He  must  bend  his  mast  ere  a  week  be  past, 

For  he  may  not  harbor  there. 

"We  know  not  your  stripes  and  your  dancing  stars, 

So  choose  ye,  stout  John  Paul: 
Will  ye  leave  your  prize  where  moored  she  lies, 

Or  away  'neath  the  flag  of  Gaul?" 

"Tis  by  evil  chance  that  I  leave  to  France 
What  we  bought  with  the  blood  so  red, 

But  away  we'll  slip  in  a  weaker  ship 
With  the  free  stars  tossed  o'erhead." 

It  was  black  as  the  maw  of  a  witch's  cat 
And  the  wind  was  a  shrieking  gale. 

'Twas  a  murk,  murk  night,  and  the  waves  threshed 

white 
'Neath  the  strokes  of  the  norther's  flail. 

"Oh,  it's  reef  your  sail  to  the  sweeping  gale 
And  the  threat  of  the  wintry  skies, 

For  we're  up  and  away  from  the  churlish  bay 
'Neath  the  bonniest  flag  that  flies!" 

[250] 


There  are  twoscore  ships  of  the  Channel  Fleet 

All  alert  for  the  rover  dread; 
And  the  king  hath  told  a  wealth  in  gold 

As  the  price  of  the  "pirate's"  head. 

But  the  fleet  may  rest  from  a  bootless  quest 
And  the  king  tell  his  guineas  o'er; 

He  is  running  free  on  the  open  sea 
And  home  to  the  western  shore. 


Though  he  struck  for  the  right  and  in  open  fight 

And  he  kept  his  honor  clear, 
They  affront  his  fame  with  their  lying  blame 

And  the  taunt  of  "the  Buccaneer"! 

So  we'll  drink,  "Paul  Jones!"  and  the  world  may 
hark 

While  the  clashing  beakers  peal! 
For  he  took  his  prize  in  a  sinking  bark 

By  the  sweep  of  the  moonlit  steel! 


251] 


THE  OLD  "CONSTITUTION" 

Before  the  wind  that  greets  the  sun 

She  bowled  along  in  glee — 
The  brave  old  ship  whose  cannon  won 

The  freedom  of  the  sea. 

And  fifteen  stripes  and  fifteen  stars 

She  flaunted  high  in  air 
When  Huffs  fierce  broadsides  raked  the  spars 

Of  England's  "Guerriere" 

The  school  where  heroes  proved  their  worth 

In  gale  or  battle  smoke, 
Her  masts  were  pines  of  mountain  birth, 

Her  sides  were  native  oak. 

And  proud  in  sails  without  a  fleck, 

She  rode  to  meet  the  foe 
When  Bainbridge  walked  her  quarter-deck 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

[252] 


FRAUNCES'  TAVERN 

AT  the  corner  of  Broad  and  Pearl  Streets  stands 
•**•  Fraunces*  Tavern,  now  restored,  as  nearly 
as  might  be,  to  its  condition  in  the  days  when 
Gen.  George  Washington  made  it  his  head 
quarters.  The  old  mansion  was  erected  early  in 
the  eighteenth  century  by  Stephen  or  fitienne  De 
Lancey,  and  later  was  purchased  by  Samuel 
Fraunces,  who  opened  it  as  an  inn  displaying  the 
sign  of  "Queen  Charlotte." 

Many  historic  gatherings  have  been  held  within 
the  walls  of  the  old  house,  but  its  chief  title  to 
fame  is  the  fact  that  its  Long  Room  witnessed  the 
affecting  parting  of  Washington  and  his  generals 
at  the  close  of  the  Revolution. 


FRAUNCES'  TAVERN 

RESTORE,  O  Thought,  whose  potent  weird 
Recalls  the  Past  on  lagging  pinion, 

The  corbeled  roof  De  Lancey  reared 

What  time  Queen  Anne  maintained  dominion. 

Away  with  dust  and  rattling  pave! 

Let  all  be  swarded,  green  and  trim, 
And  call  the  river's  banished  wave 

Again  to  lap  a  garden's  rim. 

How  bright  with  silk  and  rich  brocade, 
With  baldric  broad  and  tossing  feather. 

The  Long  Room  rilled  when  youth  and  maid 
Went  swinging  down  the  floor  together! 

Those  heavy  beams  could  make  avow 
Of  all  the  joys  of  dance  and  reel, 

Of  flirt  of  fan  and  courtly  bow 
And  sudden  glint  of  jealous  steel. 

[254] 


But  ruthless  Traffic  claimed  the  place; 

And  swarthy-visaged  Landlord  Fraunces 
Displayed  Queen  Charlotte's  pictured  face 

To  awe  his  guests  with  regal  glances. 

Then  here  the  traveler  reined  his  beast 
And  drank  his  noggin  in  the  shade, 

And  merchants  met  in  solemn  feast 
To  ponder  for  the  weal  of  trade; 

And  captains,  fresh  from  siege  and  plain, 
Rehearsed  their  tales  of  savage  warring 

At  Frontenac  and  Fort  Duquesne 

In  tones  that  set  the  glasses  jarring, 

And  pledged  the  memory  of  him 

Who  stormed  the  Heights  of  Abraham1 

In  bumpers  beaded  to  the  brim 
With  rousing  punch  of  Rip  van  Dam. 

Oppressed  by  laws  of  grievous  weight 
And  tyrant  craft  but  ill  dissembled, 

Within  these  walls,  in  high  debate, 
The  "Sons  of  Liberty"  assembled. 

[255] 


In  vain  they  pled  for  right  undone! 

In  vain,  for  hearts  were  stern  and  proud — 
Till  rang  the  shot  of  Lexington 

And  grimly  closed  the  battle-cloud. 

•  •  •  •  • 

But  hark!  the  room  resounds  anew 

With  clink  of  spurs  and  clank  of  sabers; 
The  leader  comes  to  bid  adieu 

To  those  who  shared  his  wars  and  labors — 


To  knightly  Schuyler,  void  of  stain, 
To  rugged  Morgan,  frank  and  free, 

To  faithful  Knox  and  fiery  Wayne, 
And  dashing  Light-Horse  Harry  Lee. 

[256] 


To  all  he  pledged  the  cup  of  grace; 

From  every  eye  the  tear-drop  started; 
Each  clasped  his  chief  in  strong  embrace; 

In  silent  grief  the  heroes  parted. 

Oh,  cherish  safe  from  force  unkind, 

Though  rust  consume  both  sword  and  pen, 

Those  ancient  walls  that  hold  enshrined 
The  honest  love  of  gallant  men! 


257 


THE  PALISADES 

HPHE  Mahican  or  Mohegan  Indians,  a  principal 
•*  tribe  of  the  great  Lenni-Lenape  or  "Original 
People,"  had  their  own  version  of  the  origin  of 
their  noble  river,  the  Mahican-ittuck,  which  we 
call  the  Hudson,  and  a  version  that  is  partly  justi 
fied  by  the  observations  of  geologists.  The  legend 
of  the  river  is  also  connected  with  another  of  the 
creation  of  the  Palisades,  those  great  columns  and 
ramparts  of  basaltic  rock  that  rise  on  the  western 
shore  of  the  sacred  stream. 


261 


THE  PALISADES 

HEAR  an  ancient  Indian  legend  told  in  many  a 

lodge  of  yore 
Where  the  great  Mahican-ittuck  rolls  on  Manna- 

hatta's  shore; 

Where  across  the  silent  river  frown  in  furrowed 
lights  and  shades 

Fire-born  basalt,  brave  with  verdure,  forest- 
crowned,  the  Palisades. 

"Know  ye  why  our  corn  is  golden  ere  the  forest 

breaks  in  flame? 
Why  our  rivers   leap   with   salmon?      Why  our 

woodland  stirs  with  game? 

"Children  of  the  Ancient  People!  over  all  your 

home  is  blest; 
For   of  all   the   lands    beneath   him,   yours   the 

Manitou  loved  best. 

[262] 


"High  among  old  hills  that  knew  not  council- 
flare  nor  hunter's  trail 

Slept  a  lake,  unrilled  though  forests  crashed  be 
fore  the  northern  gale; 

"For,   upon  a   central  island   raised,  the  mystic 

wigwam  stood 
Where  the  Mighty  Spirit  brooded,  planning  for 

his  people's  good. 

"Envious,  the  Sons  of  Evil  vexed  the  lake  with 

frightful  dreams 
Till  the  billows,  white  with  terror,  stormed  the 

isle  in  torrent  streams, 

"Forced  the  gateway  of  the  hills,  and  headlong 

to  the  vale  below 
Plunged  in  panic,  dashing,  tumbling — formed  the 

river  that  ye  know. 

"Rose  in  wrath  the  Mighty  Spirit;  caught  and 

bound  the  evil  band; 
Spake  unto  the  waves  and  calmed  them;  led  the 

river  with  his  hand. 

[263] 


"Where  the  turbid  waters  mingled  with  the  brine 

of  ocean  waves, 
There  the  Master  flung  his  captives  howling  down 

the  dismal  caves. 

"Over  them  his  potent  magic  reared  the  massive 

cliffs  that  stand 
Jailers  of  the  Sons  of  Evil,  wardens  of  the  favored 

land. 

"Through  the  bitter  Moon  of  Snowshoes,  by  your 
lodge-flames  crouching  warm, 

Ye  may  hear  the  captives  wailing  to  their  broth 
ers  of  the  storm; 

"But  they  may  not  force  their  prison;  nor  may 

spirit  evil-crazed 
Ever  pass  the  charmed  ramparts  by  the  hand  of 

God  upraised. 

"Hail!  ye  shaggy-breasted  Giants,  rugged  guards 
of  field  and  glade! 

Tempest-quelling,  stand  forever;  matchless,  change 
less,  unafraid!" 

[264] 


UNDER    THE  PALISADES 

Light  as  a  leaf  on  the  lifting  swell, 

Balanced  by  touch  of  the  spruce-wood  blades. 
Poised  like  a  javelin,  floats  my  shell 

Under  the  frown  of  the  Palisades. 

Molded  were  they  in  volcanic  fire, 
Up  from  the  bosom  of  Chaos  hurled, 

Battlement,  pinnacle,  column,  spire 

Carved  by  the  Chisel  that  wrought  the  world. 

Clear  to  their  Dunsinane  rampart  sweep 
Bough-bearing  armies  of  rooted  foes; 

Bright  in  their  chasms  the  cascades  leap; 
Over  their  rubble  the  fox-grape  grows. 

Long  have  they  guarded  the  river's  flow, 
Summer  and  winter  the  ages  through, 

Watching  the  argosies  come  and  go — 
Go,  like  the  Indian  s  frail  canoe. 

[265] 


Proud  in  the  heavens  they  seem  to  say, 
Catching  my  feathering  oarblade's  gleam, 

"What  is  yon  waif  of  a  passing  day 
Vexing  the  rill  of  our  golden  stream?" 

Cliffs  of  the  eons  that  woo  the  sky, 

Furrowed  with  shadows  of  world-old  thought, 

Brood  ye  in  pity  on  such  as  I?  .  .  . 
I  shall  be  deathless  when  ye  are  naught! 


[266] 


THE  DEVIL'S  STEPPING-STONES 

TT  may  have  been  a  too  intimate  acquaintance 
*  with  the  grimmer  side  of  Old  World  theology 
that  led  the  early  settlers  to  give  over  to  the 
powers  of  evil  the  fairest  lands  and  waters  in  their 
new  possessions.  "Hell  Gate"  and  "Spuyten 
Duyvil"  mark  the  eastern  and  northern  limits  of 
Manhattan.  Up  the  Hudson,  on  the  west  shore 
not  far  beyond  Poughkeepsie,  is  the  "Duyvils* 
Dans-kammer,"  the  Devils'  Dancing-chamber. 
Even  placid  Long  Island  Sound  figures  on  old 
Colonial  maps  as  "the  Devil's  Belt";  and  the 
irregular,  broken  reefs  that  stretch  from  the  base 
of  Great  Neck  across  the  Sound  to  the  mainland 
are  to  this  day  known  as  "the  Devil's  Stepping- 


267 


THE  DEVIL'S  STEPPING-STONES 

A  SKY  of  gold,  a  sea  of  blue, 

A  drowsy  day  of  naught  to  do; 

In  pleasant  waves  our  lines  we  threw 

At  anchor  as  we  lay 

Where,  reaching  through  the  gentle  Sound, 
Manhasset  rears  a  wooded  mound 
And  Schuyler,  grimly  cannon-crowned, 

Disputes  the  narrow  way. 

Right  merrily  our  angling  throve! 
By  noon  we  sought  a  sheltered  cove 
Where,  plunging,  joyously  we  clove 
The  waters  clear  and  cold. 


Our  feast  we  spread,  our  songs  were  sung; 
Then,  pipes  alight,  at  ease  we  flung 
To  harken  while  our  skipper's  tongue 
Rehearsed  a  tale  of  old. 


In  rugged  lines  that  vainly  strive  to  reach  the 

northern  side, 
The  shell-grown  ledges  rear  their  heads  above  the 

ebbing  tide. 
There    blackfish    haunt,    and    sea-bass    love    the 

salty  flow  that  drones 
Among  the  clefts — but  sailors  shun  the  Devil's 

Stepping-stones. 

Long,  long  before  the  white  man  came,   Pequot 

traditions  tell, 
Habbamocko,  the  Evil  One,  that  spirit  wild  and 

fell, 
Strode  forth  through  fair  Connecticut,  and,  casting 

flame  around, 
Waged  war  to   gain  the   fertile  vales  that  skirt 

the  northern  Sound. 

Twelve  days  the  demon  strove  with  men,  while 
all  the  sky  was  red 

[269] 


With  blazing  shaft  and  hurtling  brand;  and  then 

the  tyrant  fled, 
Still  battling,  east  along  the  strand  in  hissing 

foam  and  spray 
To  yonder  jutting  spit  of  land  that  pierces  Pelham 

Bay. 

Here,   harassed   by   a   hundred   foes,   the   baffled 

fiend  forbore; 
Across  the  wave-worn  Stepping-stones  he  reached 

Long  Island's  shore. 

In  that  far  time  no  boulders  rude  bespread  the 

fertile  main, 
But  through  the  island  shattered  crags  were  thick 

on  hill  and  plain. 
At  Cold   Spring   Bay  the  vengeful   fiend   heaped 

high  a  lofty  pile 
Of  all  the  gathered  bones  of  earth  that  strewed 

the  sandy  isle. 

Loud  laughed  the  fierce  Habbamocko  as  laughs 

the  angry  gale! 
Across  the  Sound  with  mighty  arm  he  hurled  the 

craggy  hail. 

[270] 


On  shore  and  hill  the  heavy  stones  were  flung  with 

crashing  din 
To  load  with  sterile  bonds  the  land  his  prowess 

failed  to  win. 

And  since  that  day  of  flaming  shocks 

And  fierce,  infernal  revel, 
Connecticut  has  all  the  rocks — 

Long  Island  keeps  the  Devil. 


A  SEA  CHARM 

Winds  that  waft  the  fisher-fleet 
Cool  the  sands  from  burning  heat! 
Trouble  not  her  slender  feet, 

Wave-worn  pebbles! 
Crusty  crabs  both  great  and  small 
Where  the  billows  rise  and  fall, 
Quit  her  path,  I  charge  ye  ally 

Be  not  rebels! 

Smile  above  her,  azure  dome! 
Lap  her  softly,  curling  foam! 
White-ridged  combers  tumbling  home 
Rarely  laden, 

[272] 


Rolling  in  from  open  sea 
Rock  her  high  in  giant  glee, 
Bearing  safely  back  to  me 
My  mermaiden! 


1273] 


MONTGOMERY'S  RETURN 

A  MONG  the  general  officers  in  the  American 
**  army  at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution 
none  was  of  greater  promise  than  Richard  Mont 
gomery,  whose  noble  bearing,  winning  manners, 
and  splendid  bravery  were  extolled  alike  by  friend 
and  foe.  Montgomery  had  been  but  two  years 
married  to  Janet  Livingston  at  the  commence 
ment  of  hostilities,  but  he  at  once  offered  his  ser 
vices  and  was  placed  in  command  of  the  ill-fated 
expedition  to  Quebec.  In  a  bitter  winter  campaign 
with  but  a  small  force  he  captured  Montreal  and 
conquered,  to  quote  Edmund  Burke,  two-thirds 
of  Canada,  only  to  fall,  December  31,  1775,  lead 
ing  a  desperate  assault  on  Quebec. 

In  1818  the  general's  remains  were  removed  and 
convoyed  down  the  Hudson  to  be  reinterred  in 
St.  Paul's  Chapel,  New  York,  near  the  monument 
that  had  been  ordered  in  Paris  by  Benjamin  Frank 
lin.  As  the  funeral  barge,  floating  slowly  down  the 


Hudson  to  the  booming  of  minute  guns,  passed 
Montgomery's  home  near  Rhinebeck,  his  widow, 
looking  upon  the  bier,  fainted  away  in  the  stress 
of  what  she  afterward  said  was  the  proudest  and 
saddest  moment  of  her  life. 
19 


[2751 


MONTGOMERY'S    RETURN 

How  black  the  barge  of  trailing  pali 

And  nodding  sable  plume 
That  Hudson  bears  by  mountain  wall 

And  fields  of  golden  bloom 
A  cloud  upon  the  azure  flow, 

A  shadow  in  the  sun, 
To  drumhead  roll  and  church-bell  toll 

And  boom  of  minute  gun! 
By  night  the  ruddy  beacons  flame 

On  crested  Kaaterskill. 
Great  heart  that  beat  for  Love  and  Fame 

Why  liest  thou  so  still? 

How  blithe  and  brave  he  left  his  hall 
Beside  the  Hudson's  wave! 

He  heard  his  struggling  country's  call, 
His  uttermost  he  gave. 

He  bade  his  bonny  bride  farewell; 
In  wastes  of  nor'land  snow 

He  battled,  conquered,  failed,  and  fell- 
Full  twoscore  years  ago 

[276] 


They've  wrapped  him  in  a  noble  sheath, 

The  flag  without  a  fleck; 
They've  borne  him  from  the  grave  beneath 

The  walls  of  old  Quebec. 

The  land  he  left  in  doubtful  strife 

Has  triumphed,  free  and  blest; 
And  him  that  died  to  give  it  life 

His  people  bear  to  rest. 
The  bride  he  kissed  a  blooming  lass 

Is  wrinkled,  old,  and  gray; 
She  hears  the  drums;  she  sees  him  pass; 

She  droops  and  swoons  away. 

Loud  boomed  the  bell  of  high  St.  Paul's 

From  out  the  hollow  dome; 
And  thus  below  those  ivied  walls 

Montgomery  came  home. 


[277] 


A  DREAMER 

Here  lies  a  little  boy  who  made  believe; 

Who  found  in  sea  and  city,  hill  and  star, 
What  wise  men  said  were  not;  who  loved  to  weave 

Dream  warp  and  woof  more  fair  than  things  that 

are. 
He  made  believe  that  heavy  toil  and  stress 

Were  only  play,  and  sang  the  while  he  wrought; 
He  made  believe  that  wealth  and  fame  are  less 

Than  faith  and  truth — that  love  cannot  be  bought; 
That  honor  lives;  that  far  beyond  the  goal 

That  lures  our  eyes,  to  nobler  ports  we  steer; 
That  grief  was  meant  to  forge  the  living  soul, 

And  death  itself  is  not  for  men  to  fear. 
At  last  he  made  believe  his  play  was  played; 

A  kindly  Hand  the  darkening  curtain  drew. 
So  well  he  made  believe  he  nearly  made 

The  world  believe  his  make-believes  were  true. 


278] 


DUTCHMAN'S  QUIRK 

T^HE  more  modern  streets  in  the  upper  section 
*  of  Manhattan  are  laid  out  with  an  impartial 
regularity  that  is  unquestionably  convenient  even 
if  painfully  inartistic;  but  the  older  ways  of  the 
lower  city  often  ramble  with  a  delightful  lack  of 
responsibility.  There  is  a  story  in  every  crook  and 
curve  of  these  old  highways  and  byways.  One  bend 
is  due  to  the  whim  of  the  pioneer  cow  who  trod 
out  the  path  which  established  the  line  of  the 
street;  another  is  accounted  for  by  the  course  of 
a  forgotten  stream  that  still  runs,  deep  under 
ground;  while  yet  another  tells  of  some  old  farm 
wall,  building,  honored  landmark,  or  other  token  of 
vested  rights  that  the  early  roadmakers  dared  not 
desecrate  or  disregard. 

The  following  ballad  tells  the  true  history  of  the 
sudden  turn  that  Broadway  takes  at  Tenth  Street 
— the  curve  known  as  "The  Bend  at  Grace 
Church." 


279 


DUTCHMAN'S  QUIRK 

BROADWAY  reaches  northward  from  fair  Bowling 

Green 
Direct  as  an  arrow-flight,  flexureless,  clean 

And  certain  of  line 

As  the  trunk  of  a  pine 
(And  would  that  a  rod  of  its  frontage  were  mine!) 

Quite  suddenly  then, 

At  the  street  numbered  "Ten," 
Above  a  great  warehouse  of  laces  and  shawls, 
Just  south  of  a  chapel  with  gray  Gothic  walls, 

It  leaps  to  the  west 

Like  a  roadway  possessed! 

In  flagrant  defiance 

Of  Reason  and  Science, 

Macadam  and  Telford  and  Byrne,  and  the  laws 
Of   wise  Roman  roadmakers.  .  .  .     Hear  ye  the 
cause! 

Old  Hendrick  Brevoort,  in — what  matters  the  date? 
In  days  that  are  gone,  held  a  goodly  estate — 

[280] 


A  "bouwerie"  termed  in  the  speech  of  the  Dutch 
(His  neighbors  were  Stuyvesants,  Banckers,  and 

such) ; 

And  there  with  the  hoardings  of  toil  and  frugality, 
Lived  at  his  ease  and  dispensed  hospitality. 


With  head  in  the  heavens,  deep-rooted  in  earth, 
A  tulip-tree,  mighty  of  burgeon  and  girth, 


So  stately  and  proud, 

Wide-branching,  great-boughed, 
Overshadowed  his  lawn  with  an  emerald  cloud. 
'Twas  Hendrick's  delight  in  the  cool  of  its  bower 
To  smoke  and  to  ponder  from  hour  to  hour 

With  tankard  at  knee; 

"For,  truly/'  said  he, 

"Of  all  friends,  the  very  best  friend  is  my  tree 
That  never  provokes  me  and  never  deceives, 
But   echoes    my   thoughts   with   the   sigh   of  its 
leaves." 

The  Mayor  and  Council  had  sanctioned  a  plan 
To  straighten  the  roadways  that  rambled  and  ran 

Cross-hatching  our  isle 

In  a  wonderful  style — 
(Those  happy  old  lanes!) — so  they  summoned  a 

file 

Of  axmen  with  axes  and  chainmen  with  chains 
And  hardy  surveyors  of  mountains  and  plains 

And  gave  them  instructions, 

In  spite  of  all  ructions, 

To  follow  the  chart 

Nor  ever  depart 

A  hair  from  its  guidance;  regardless  of  mart 
[282! 


Or  hovel  or  mansion,  to  hew  out  the  way; 
Whatever  the  damage,  the  city  would  pay. 
Forth  sailed  that  trigonometrical  band 
To  further  the  work  that  the  Fathers  had  planned; 

And  strictly  obeying 

The  rules  of  surveying, 

Invested  with  powers  that  challenged  gainsaying, 
They  carried  the  roadway  o'er  high  land  and  low, 
Direct  as  the  flight  of  a  bee  or  a  crow, 

O'er  meadow  and  lot, 

Through  palace  and  cot, 

By  scenes  that  were  seemly  (by  wiles  that  were 
not), 

Through  acres  of  flowers 
And  bird-haunted  covers 

And  byways  and  bowers 
Once  sacred  to  lovers, 

Though  housewives  defended  beleagured  dominions 
Or  voiced  from  their  doorways  unfettered  opinions 
Of  levels  and  transits  and  government  minions — 
Though  cattle  protested  from  buffeted  sheds, 
Though  turnips  and  cabbages  rained  on  their 
heads, 

Though  farmer  boys  fought  them, 

Though  maidens  besought  them, 

[283] 


They    followed    their    map,    undismayed,    till    it 
brought  them 

To  Hendrick  Brevoort  at  the  foot  of  his  tree.  .  .  . 

What!     Yield     up     his    friend    to    the    axman? 
Not  he! 

He  called  out  his  neighbors,   the   Blauvelts,  the 
Raynors; 

They  stirred  up  their  vassals  and  sturdy  retainers, 

Their   tenants   and   servants,   white,   yellow,   and 
black- 

Dirck,  Chuffee,   and  Hubert,  Claes,  Mingo,  and 

Jack- 
Both  merry  young  springalds  and  crusty  curmud 
geons 

With  ax-helves  and  pitchforks  and  scythe-blades 
and  bludgeons, 

Resolved  to  defend 
To  the  bitterest  end 

The  right  of  a  Dutchman  to  stand  by  his  friend! 

The  Knights  of  the  Sextant  yet  sought  to  prevail 
With  promise  of  riches  or  threat  of  the  jail; 
But,  finding  old  Hendrick  perverse  or  obtuse, 
They   drew   off  their    army   and    patched    up    a 
truce. 

[284] 


Brevoort  left  the  tree  in  the  keep  of  his  horde 
To  make  good  in  law  what  he  held  by  the  sword. 

He  called  on  the  Mayor, 

The  City  Surveyor, 

The  Coroner,  Marshal,  and  every  taxpayer 
Of  substance  or  influence,  urging  his  plea 
Of   "Woodman,    oh,  woodman,  don't    fool    with 
that  tree!" 

Sing    hey!    for    the    hard-headed    man    with    a 

whim! 
The  plan  of  a  city  was  altered  for  him! 

The  highway  led  straight 

To  Hendrick's  estate, 

Then  gallantly  swerved 

And  gracefully  curved 

Away  to  the  westward The  tree  was  preserved! 

(To  chuckle,  no  doubt, 

At  the  numberless  rout 
Of  mortals  his  Majesty  made  to  turn  out.) 

When  up  through  the  canon  entitled  "Broadway" 
You're  riding  on  business  or  pleasure  to-day, 
And  suddenly,  close  to  the  front  of  Grace  Church, 
The  car  takes  a  curve  with  a  jolt  and  a  lurch 

[285] 


That  loosens,  mayhap, 

Your  hold  on  a  strap 

And  drops  you  quite  neatly  in  somebody's  lap, 
Remember,  the  cause  of  that  shameful  jerk 
Is,  just  as  I've  shown  you,  a  " Dutchman's  Quirk!" 


[286] 


NEW  YORK 

The  city  is  cutting  a  way, 

The  gasmen  are  hunting  a  leak; 

They9 re  -putting  down  asphalt  to-day, 
To  change  it  for  stone  in  a  week. 

The  builders  are  raising  a  wall, 
The  wreckers  are  tearing  one  down. 

Enacting  the  drama  of  all 

Our  changeable,  turbulent  town. 

For  here  is  an  edifice  meant 
To  stand  for  an  eon  or  more; 

And  there  is  a  gospeler's  tent, 
And  there  is  a  furniture-store. 

Our  suburbs  are  under  the  plow, 
Our  scaffolds  are  raw  in  the  sun; 

We  re  drunk  and  disorderly  now, 

BUT— 
9  Twill  be  a  great  place  when  it's  done! 

[287] 


THE  "CLERMONT" 

A  LL  contemporary  accounts  of  the  first  voyage 
**'  of  Fulton's  little  steamboat  tell  of  the  sur 
prise  or  fright  of  those  who  saw  the  strange  craft, 
breathing  smoke  and  flame,  glide  up  the  Hudson 
against  wind  and  tide.  Thirty-two  hours  was  the 
time  of  this  epoch-making  trip  from  New  York 
to  Albany,  a  distance  of  rather  less  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles;  but  the  average  time  of 
the  sloops  of  the  day  between  the  same  points  was 
four  days.  The  invention  of  the  steamboat,  it 
has  been  said,  was  in  effect  the  discovery  of  not 
only  a  "shorter  route  to  India,"  that  quest  of 
generations  of  navigators,  but  also  of  a  shorter 
route  to  all  the  coasts  of  all  the  seas. 

It  is  generally  accepted  that  the  small  paddle- 
wheel  steamer  whose  success  revolutionized  navi 
gation  was  named  Clermont  after  Clermont  Manor, 
the  residence  of  Chancellor  Robert  R.  Livingston, 
Fulton's  constant  friend,  and  partner  in  his  am- 
[288] 


bitious  venture;  though  according  to  an  anonymous 
and  therefore  negligible  writer  who  claims  to  have 
been  a  passenger  on  the  first  trip,  Katherine  of 
Clermont  was  the  name  painted  on  the  historic 
craft. 


[289] 


THE  "CLERMONT" 

A  ROAR  of  smoke  from  the  iron  stack 

That  frights  the  ghosts  of  the  haunted  Hollow; 

A  churn  of  foam,  and  a  broadening  track 
For  all  the  fleets  of  the  world  to  follow. 


She  asks  no  aid  of  the  swollen  sail; 

Her  engines  pant  and  her  timbers  quiver; 
She  lifts  her  bows  to  the  northern  gale 

And  breasts  the  tide  of  the  lordly  river. 
[290] 


The  round-eyed  host  at  his  tavern  door 
Lets  fall  the  pipe  and  the  frothing  flagon; 

The  brown-winged  sloops  of  the  Tappan  shore 
Make  frightened  way  for  the  snorting  dragon. 

The  scythe-men  group  and  the  binders  flock 
To  gaze  in  awe  at  the  floating  wonder; 

The  red  deer  stamps  on  the  basalt  rock 
And  bounds  away  to  the  Hill  of  Thunder. 

A  fabled  road  to  the  far  Cathay 

Old  Hudson  sought  through  our  western  High 
lands; 
But  here's  the  key  to  a  shorter  way 

Through  all  the  seas  to  the  farthest  islands. 

The  Craftsman's  hand  and  the  Thinker's  dream 
Shall  bind  the  lands  with  a  shortening  tether; 

The  wit  of  Man  and  the  might  of  Steam 
Shall  draw  the  rims  of  the  world  together. 

A  roar  of  smoke  from  her  iron  stack 

That  frights  old  ghosts  from  the  haunted  Hollow; 

A  churn  of  foam,  and  a  broadening  track 
For  all  the  fleets  of  the  world  to  follow. 

20  [  29i  1 


GREAT  IS   DIANA   OF    THE 
MANNAHATTOES! 

Northward!    Northward!    Goddess  of  the  Tower, 
Driving  back  the  dappled  cloud. 

Bend  thy  golden  bow. 

Mignonette  and  violet  and  autumn  s  tawny  flower 
Fill  with  bloom  and  vague  perfume 
The  humming  ways  below. 

Down  from  his  mountains  Hudson  rolls  away, 
Pouring  forth  their  balsam  breath 

Upon  our  jaded  strands; 
Eastward,  westward,  southward  to  the  Bay 
Rock  like  bare  November  woods 
The  masts  of  many  lands. 

Day  lifts  up  the  hymnal  of  the  street; 
Night  hath  lamps 

Of  silver  for  thy  shrine; 
Air-drift,  cloud-drift  play  about  thy  feet; 
Moonlight,  starlight, 
Touch  thy  brow  divine. 

[292] 


Ward  our  gates,  Wielder  of  the  Bow! 
Guard  with  us  a  nation  s  weal, 

Regent  of  the  skies! 
Crowd  with  keels  the  winnowed  waves 

That  round  our  island  flow! 
Shop  and  mart  to  thee  shall  raise 

The  smoke  of  sacrifice! 


[293] 


THE  HALL  OF  FAME 

University  Heights,  overlooking  the  Har- 
lem,  stands  the  Hall  of  Fame  erected  to 
honor  the  names  of  great  Americans  and  dedi 
cated  in  June,  1901.  According  to  a  rule  laid 
down  by  the  founder,  no  names  might  be  inscribed 
on  the  tablets  of  the  building  save  those  of  men 
who  were  born  in  territory  that  was  included  in 
the  United  States  at  the  date  of  the  deed  of  gift. 
This  regulation  necessarily  excluded  the  names  of 
some  who  were  largely  instrumental  in  laying  the 
foundations  of  the  nation. 


[294] 


THE  HALL  OF  FAME 
ALL-HALLOWE'EN,  A.D.  2000 

A  NOBLE  fane  of  marble  wall  and  moonlit  colonnade 
Looks   southward    from    a   crest   that   rears   o'er 

Haarlem's  gentle  glade 

To  watch  the  jeweled  city's  rest  in  majesty  serene — 
The  calm,  strong  sleep  that  midnight  gives  our 

sea-enthroned  queen — 
Looks  westward  to  the  Palisades,  whose  frowning 

foreheads  throw 
An  even  shade  upon  the  gleam  of  Hudson's  silver 

flow. 

The  hall  is  filled  with  wondrous  light  and  faint 

sweet  minstrelsy 

And  softly  echoed  laugh  and  song  of  elfin  revelry; 
'Tis  Hallowe'en!  and  once  again  to  view  those 

walls,  repair 
The  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  whose  names  are 

graven  there. 

[295] 


Within  is  mirth  and  merriment  among  the  chosen 

Great; 
Without,  a  surly  Porter  stands  to  guard  the  sacred 

gate 
Against  each  unelected   Shade  that  foreign  birth 

must  claim; 
For  thus  decreed  the  gentle  soul  that  reared  the 

Hall  of  Fame. 

Forward  stepped  a  graceful  sprite, 
Quick  of  action,  straight  and  slight, 
Ruddy-hued,  with  tawny  hair, 
Free  of  speech  yet  debonair; 
One  round  hole  (ah,  mortal  hurt!) 
Through  the  neatly  ruffled  shirt. 
"Open,  Porter!     I  would  lief 
Greet  again  my  noble  chief, 
He  whose  service  was  my  school 
First  in  warfare,  then  in  rule. 
Of  his  dearest  I  was  one — 
Alexander  Hamilton." 

Answered  the  Porter  in  sullen-voiced  scorn, 
"Ere  I  admit  thee  say  where  thou  wast  born." 

"Where  the  tropic  breeze  beguiles 
On  the  sea-kissed  Leeward  Isles 

[296] 


First  I  breathed.     But  well  ye  ken 
All  our  breed  were  Britons  then." 

"To  all  but  the  home-born  this  portal  is  barred, 
Hie  back  to  thy  barrow  in  Trinity  Yard!" 

A  stalwart  form  in  the  Blue  and  Buff, 
With  a  shot-rent  sash  of  the  silken  stuff, 
With  shoulders  squared  and  head  held  high, 
A  statesman's  brow  and  a  soldier's  eye, 
The  mouth  where  butter  wouldn't  melt, 
And  the  lilting  laugh  of  the  dauntless  Celt, 
Sprang  up  the  slope  in  the  moonlight  dim 
And  shouted  clear  to  the  Warden  grim, 
"Unbar  the  gate,  my  man,  for  me! 
Make  way  for  Dick  Montgomerie!" 
(So  rang  that  voice  before  his  fall 
On  old  Quebec's  ensanguined  wall.) 

Again  spake  the  Porter:    "I  know  not  thy  worth. 
Proclaim,  ere  I  open,  the  land  of  thy  birth." 

"My  faith  and  troth!  yer  wit  is  flat! 
I  thought  my  tongue  would  tell  ye  that! 
In  Ireland,  sure,  I  first  drew  breath; 
But  what  of  birth — so  long  since  death?" 

[297] 


"No  foreign-born  spirit  may  enter  these  walls. 
Go  back  to  thy  tomb  in  the  crypt  of  St.  Paul's !" 

"Room  for  the  governor!"  iron-jawed 
Stout  Peter  Stuyvesant  walks  abroad, 
Quitting  his  charnel  in  old  St.  Mark's, 
Up  through  the  tangle  of  streets  and  parks, 
Stumping  away  on  his  wooden  peg 
And  the  high-heeled  shoe  of  his  one  sound  leg. 
Monarch  of  Shadows,  he  governs  still, 
Ruler  by  force  of  a  stubborn  will. 
Sharp  and  direct  was  the  word  he  spake: 
"Rules  that  mislike  me  I  dare  to  break. 
Open  the  portal,  ye  varlet,  quick! 
'Ware  of  the  swing  of  mine  oaken  stick! 
Forward,  my  heroes  !'*    And,  at  his  call, 
Freely  they  strode  through  the  ringing  hall. 
Round  them  the  banded  Immortals  drew, 
Hailed  them  as  brothers  and  comrades  true. 
There,  in  the  center,  I  saw  them  stand 
Pressing  their  lips  to  the  Founder's  hand, 
Who,  with  a  pencil  of  golden  flame, 
Entered  new  names  on  the  Roll  of  Fame. 


[298] 


Epilogue 

THE  BOOK  LINE 

Rivington  Street  Branch,  New  York  Public  Library. 

COME,  ye  that  despair  of  the  land 

Which  the  Future  shall  know — 
Who  doubt  what  the  years  that  expand 

In  their  fulness  must  show — 
Who  grasp  not  the  thing  which  shall  be 

When  deliverance  comes 
To  millions  in  bondage — and  see, 

At  the  verge  of  the  slums, 
These  foreign-born  children  that  march 

In  their  hundreds  and  more 
In  sunshine  and  storm,  through  the  arch 

Of  the  library  door! 

Their  race?    Ah,  what  matters  their  race 

To  our  generous  Mold 
Of  Nations!    Yet,  if  ye  would  trace 

All  the  record  unrolled, 
[299] 


Take  heart  from  the  days  that  are  dead 

For  the  fathers  of  these 
With  Lief  or  with  Eric  the  Red 

Braved  mysterious  seas, 
Or  followed  Yermak  through  the  snows 

Of  a  boreal  dome, 
Or  gave  to  the  eagles  the  foes 

Of  Imperial  Rome; 
Or  tented  with  David,  or  ranked 

In  the  Balkans  those  swords 
That  bulwarked  all  Europe,  unthanked, 

From  the  Ottoman  hordes. 
Aye,  old  at  the  time  of  the  Flood, 

Still  the  law  is  the  same; 
The  Builder  shall  spring  from  the  blood 

Whence  the  Warrior  came. 

They  trail  through  the  alley  and  mart 

To  this  Palace  of  Tomes — 
Wee  urchins,  red-hatted  and  swart 

As  their  underworld  gnomes, 
And  hundreds  of  quaint  little  maids 

Wearing  ribands  of  green 
Or  scarlet  on  duplicate  braids, 

Quick-eyed,  orderly,  clean, 

[300] 


And  silent.     Some  take  from  the  shelves 

Of  the  volumes  arow 
Those  legends  of  goblins  and  elves 

That  we  loved  long  ago; 
Yet  more  choose  the  stories  of  men 

Whom  a  nation  reveres — 
Of  Lincoln  and  Washington,  then 

Of  the  bold  pioneers 
Who  plowed  in  a  blood-sprinkled  sod, 

Whose  strong  hands  caused  to  rise 
That  Temple  which  these,  under  God, 

Yet  shall  rear  to  the  skies! 


THE    END 


RETURN 
TO—* 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


FORM  NO.  DD  19 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


